"Black-Skin Zombies…"
Ethan recognized them right away. These things were what happened when regular zombies got too hungry—so hungry they lost all sense of self and started devouring their own kind. The result? These twisted, feral creatures.
Black-Skin Zombies weren't intelligent. They were pure instinct—kill and consume. Nothing more.
But their presence meant something else, something far more important: intelligent undead weren't far behind.
Ethan immediately dropped his flight altitude, tailing the pack of Black-Skin Zombies from above.
Below, the barren wasteland stretched out like a graveyard. Bones littered the ground, piled layer upon layer.
The Black-Skin Zombies tore across the terrain, their feet crunching down on brittle skeletons, shattering them into dust. Bone shards flew in every direction.
They didn't care. Their faces were twisted and grotesque, with hollow eye sockets that stared into nothing. They looked like nightmares made flesh.
