He fell, and time was slowed almost to a Holt, his prone body crumpling and collapsing beneath him, landing with a muffled thump on the dew cover meadow. Tendrils of blood snaked outward from his fingertips, turning thicker and darker, as his life force slowly poles around him. The sweet smell of nectar turned sour, curdling with the coppery scent of blood, seeping from the body. The sound of a birds morning call, cut short by the shrill shriek of a mother who has just lost her child. Hot tears stream down her cheeks in torrents, and heart wrenching sobs rack through her body as she clutches the boy to her chest; crimson blood smeared on her face as she desperately calls for help; but it is all in vain, there is no one that can help now. I slink back, shrouded by the shadows, and turn my back. There is no compassion or grief left in me, how could there be?
There is no space for kindness, No space for hope. Not in this world...
This is a world of The walking dead