This is it. The end of the line. The famous last stand. Your freshly-looted chainsaw thunders into life, kicking and spluttering with malicious intent. Multiple warning labels suggest that the device was not intended for carnage. Maybe its brothers were birthed for the garages of middle-aged men… destined to rust in the dark, but the family resemblance is nil. This is a weapon, a furious tool of wrath and vivisection screaming to have its warranty voided.
Every lifeless husk for miles now knows where you are.
The scant few others who made it this far mill around listlessly behind you. Every one of them so hopelessly wired-in that they'd rather livetweet certain death than go down fighting. Vacantly shuffling, hunched over their phones… zombies minus the need for brains.
You hit play on your undead-massacre mixtape and don your earbuds for one last time.
Could be worse. At least you're only dying once today.
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