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best of luck


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He ran down the corridor as fast as he could, his black leather boots making thuds as he tried to flee. He pulled out a flare from the side pocket of his black paramilitary cargos, striking it against the wall as he sprinted.

They were coming . . .

He could hear the shuffling of clawed feet and the moans, oh the moans!

The monotonous moans would drive any man made, and have nearly succeeded in doing the same to him.

Bright red fire shot from the end of the flare as he flung it over his shoulder to deter the advancing mob. Slowly stretching his left hand behind him, he grabbed his lever-action 12-guage shot gun, sawed off barrel and stock.

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