- They have leaders now.

  - They're organized.

  - In a world of the dead, the one-eyed corpse is king.

  ---

  I first noticed it two nights ago.

  I was tailing a group of munchers—five of them, moving down the street like kids following a school bus. But it wasn’t random. It wasn’t the usual wander-until-you-smell-me routine.

  They were following someone.

  She—or it—was different. Tall. Hair matted but braided. Eyes cloudy, but alert. Moved like it remembered being alive. And every few steps, it let out this low, throaty rasp. Not a groan—more like a call.

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  The rest followed it. Not just followed—obeyed. If it stopped, they stopped. If it turned, so did they.

  It felt… wrong.

  So I watched. Tracked them from the rooftops. Took notes. I needed this.

  When a stray groaner wandered too close and didn’t get in line, the tall one—let’s call her Braid—lunged at it. Tore out a chunk of shoulder. Didn’t eat it. Just… punished it.

  And the others watched. Like it was discipline.

  So I tested a theory.

  Next day, I waited until they passed the old florist’s. I hid above, crowbar in hand, breath in my lungs like it was the last one I’d get.

  When they turned the corner—I dropped.

  Right on Braid.

  Took her down hard. Split her skull open with the second swing. Felt something crack—not just bone, but something deeper.

  The rest froze. Every single one of them just… stopped.

  Then they scattered. Like bugs without a nest.

  I didn’t chase. Just stared at the cracked sidewalk where her cloudy eye still stared back up at me. I slammed my food down her head, crushing the skull and making a mess out of my shoe and pants.

  So yeah. They have leaders now. I don’t know how. I don’t know why.

  But I know this—cut the head, the body falls apart.

  Even if the body’s already dead.