The undead drag their rotting limbs through burning streets, flies buzzing in clouds around them. They let loose guttural croaks, rasping roars, and labored breaths—their throats gurgling with whatever remains of their bodily fluids. Crows caw from above, observing their walking feast. Some of the undead seem to try to form words, but their vocalizations come out no more coherent than a baby’s babble.
