When the sour smell of putrefaction seeped into his nose, Zhang Zihao's Adam's apple rolled unconsciously. He huddled in the shadow behind the shelves of the convenience store, and the touch of his fingertips digging into the cracks in the cement was like sandpaper rubbing against his skin.
The moonlight slanted in through the broken glass window, drawing a silver wound on the dusty ground.
The low roar of zombies could be heard in the distance. The sound was as thick as rotten flesh filling the throat, and it also sounded like the groan of some mechanical parts as they rusted.
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