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situation, Jack raised his hatchet and continued onwards to his first target. The troops behind galloped on in a frenzied blood lust, excited to have a purpose and task.
    Jack reached his first victim and slammed the hatchet into the foul smelling beast’s forehead, the blade driving deep into its skull and sticking there. The speed at which Jack had been moving caused the axe to pull from his hand as he rode past and the zombie dropped to its knees. He slowed down and pulled a two handed club from his saddle, a steel bar with an iron ball welded onto the tip. The creatures began to flood towards him as he let go of the reins and focused all his attention on the head splitting mace he now wielded.
    Lifting the club above his head, Jack swung the big iron ball towards his oncoming target, the weight and trauma of the barbaric tool smashed its skull immediately and with ease, the force snapping the neck so that an ear rested on its shoulder. Madison reached Jack’s side and swung her hammer against her first target. The long shafted claw hammer was a fast and agile weapon compared to what many of them used, but it still dealt wicked damage when combined with Madison’s skill and accuracy. The small metal head of the hammer struck the very top of a zombie’s head, the inch and a half tip breaking through the skull.
    Pulling the hammer from her target, Madison swung horizontally against her next one, smashing the creature in the side of the head and sending it tumbling to her side. It was not quite dead, but its tumbling had sent it directly into the path of Justin’s horse that smashed the creature aside as if it had no mass or weight at all, its body finally broken.
    The nomadic group of the living sprawled out across the open plain, riding down every creature with a venomous hatred. In less than five minutes the small horde was a bloody incapacitated mess in the sand. The living dismounted and walked among their victims, finishing off any that showed signs of movement with one final strike.  
    As the final blows were dealt their wagon, ridden by Dale, pulled into view. The wagon was their supply train. They used it to haul their food and water, as well as spare weapons and their larger tents. It was an old, rusty and beaten up Ford F250 truck, though barely recognisable as such. The hood, wings and cab roof had been removed to save weight. The engine and transmission long since ditched, it was barely more than a chassis with a tub with two horses rigged to pull it.
    Wells rode up to Madison as she stamped on the head of a crippled zombie to finish it off. Wells was far from the clean cut and well turned out pastor he used to be. The old pastor would still talk of God throughout most evenings, but even the least observant of the survivors could begin to see his faith dwindling as the years of desperate survival went by. Wells had become battle hardened, forcibly shrugging off many of his quibbles about violence.
    “Not a bad haul,” he said.
    “Not that it’ll make any difference,” she answered him.
    “But did it not at least make you feel better, more alive?”
    “Yes, it did that.”
    “Then it made a difference.”
    “And tomorrow nothing will have changed.”
    “This state of depression and misery is not getting us anywhere. Just because you feel strongly it doesn’t make you right. What you have left is a community, and that is one of the few rarities in life worth treasuring. Think back to before all this began. Think how miserable many people made each other. So many selfish and self-centred individuals divided by envy and petty disputes, living a life of solitude more often through spite than reason. Now we have a group with a unified goal and direction in life, a real community,” said Wells.
    Madison finally stopped her sarcastic and biting ripostes and gave some thought to her father’s words. She remembered life before the Zompoc as perfect and everything after it as hell, but it was clear that