She nodded and sank further into the floorboard, grateful she wasn’t gonna get shot. I had no such certainty.

I left her behind and stepped out low, staying out of sight as I circled behind the shambling crowd; there were easily thirty of them. I could hear them speaking, but there was a strange randomness to it. They were talking but it made no real sense. Once I got closer, my stomach hit bottom as the sharp, bitter scent of rotten flesh assailed my nose, settling thick in my throat. I gagged, muffling the sound against my sleeve.

There’s nothing quite like the scent of death. No matter how often you encounter it, you can never get used to it, never prepare for it. It sticks to the air, a thick, damp breath of putrescence, which gnaws at your olfactory senses and brings tears to your eyes. It crawls inside your mouth and settles on your tongue like a putrid layer of grimy dust, the taste lingering for hours, sometimes days.

These guys were wallowing in it.

In my experience, there’s only one thing that can smell that bad and still be up walking, despite what you may think about some of the homeless you’ve encountered.

Zombies.

Just as I got close enough to confirm my suspicion, the rest of the club’s patrons burst from the door in a panicked dash, barreling right into the waiting horde of undead.

The zombies wasted no time. They tore in with abandon, moist arms flailing. Despite their appearance, tattered limbs flaking off chunks of mottled, gelatinous flesh with every movement, zombies are powerful. Strengthened by the magic that raised them, they’re meaty wrecking balls driven to destruction. The startled patrons found that out quickly. Live flesh and bone gave way to the unrelenting force of undead. Those unlucky enough to get caught up in the midst of the foul horde were quickly buried beneath a surging wave of decayed bodies. Limbs flailed and throats screamed as they were dragged under the hoary mass, sinking ships in a whirlpool of chattering death.