Lately, hordes of zombies had been pouring out of Solaris Citadel, wandering the wastelands with guttural, feral howls that echoed across the barren plains—each cry a desperate signal of hunger.
They were agitated, frenzied, driven by a gnawing need for flesh they couldn't find.
Days passed. Still nothing.
Even Dreadpaw himself had taken to the field, but it was no use.
Meanwhile, Ethan, Hank, and the rest of their crew had gone completely off the radar, hiding deep in the rugged mountains of the Exile Zone. They didn't react to the chaos outside at all. While the others starved and raged, they were happily sampling all kinds of meat they'd scavenged.
"No chickens?" Ethan frowned, rummaging through a pile of livestock remains. Not a single feather in sight. Not even anything close.
"Chickens? Uh… I don't think so…" Hank scratched his head, looking genuinely confused, like he'd never even heard of one.
