Not one of those children leaves empty-handed. Some get seconds and thirds.
And not one of them tries to devour the flesh of the living.
As we continue on our way, the undead children surround us. I pray for the strength to keep myself from slaughtering them, even as I wonder if I'm doing the right thing. Will they lead us to a hidden mother lode of proto-Christs unpredicted by the Christputer, or will they lead us into an inescapable death-trap?
"How does it feel?" Brigid asks me this as we march through the mid-afternoon heat. "Knowing that none of those people you've murdered were zombies?"
I try to ignore her. Proto-Christs are always looking to stir up doubt and disharmony with their words.
She shakes her head. "All those deaths on your conscience. All those innocents."
