Nobody likes ghost hugs.
This has thus far been the biggest disappointment of my afterlife. Yes, there’s the whole being tied to the dark, dank, dismal cave where I’d met my untimely demise, but—nah, it’s mostly the hugging. Or lack thereof.
I was quite the hugger before I died.
The zombies had the stronghold surrounded. But what else was new?
Kicking my feet up on my desk, I clicked on my handheld recorder. “This is Commander Corinthia II—that’s ‘Cori’ to my friends, ‘Commander’ to the rest of you—with an update on our situation. It’s day…” I glanced at the walls of my concrete room. The hordes of tally marks looked like the desperate clawing of the undead. “…day unknown of The Z Siege. The Oasis is holding up fairly well.” What could zombies do to a concrete fortress in the middle of a desert? Arm themselves with cactus battering rams and charge?
This city was no place for a werewolf.
The sound of heavy boots thundered behind him, and Clawson Fangsworth dodged down a dark alleyway. His bare, hairy feet squelched in a puddle of questionable substance. There was the filth, for one thing. On all fours, any werewolf worth his silver bullets could outpace a copper on his tail
What is it about living teenagers that makes breaking into places after hours so appealing to them? I mean, look at me. I get rules. Don’t be seen, don’t be heard, don’t make mist unless the forecast calls for it. And curfew? I follow curfew every night. I’m only allowed out after dark, anyway.
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