“So, why are goods transported via car referred to as a ‘shipment,’ while goods sent by ship are called ‘cargo’?” asked a penetrating voice in the room’s silence. All was black in the room of makeshift confinement – perhaps even pitch black, if such a difference between “black” and “pitch black” could be determined. There was a man – no, less of a man laying in the corner of the room, disturbed to all but himself. His eyes were dark umber in hue, as was his hair, which fell down over his neck. The male’s build was hardly a build at all, consisting of malnourished muscles and bones that made plywood look like vanadium. He was locked in the fetal position, laying on his left side with his back parallel to the wall; if he were stable enough to realize it, he might notice that he was shaking like an epileptic.
Syracuse had succumbed to silence. The once busy and populated area now appeared to be deserted. A house stood on the corner of Melrose Drive and Hoytville Avenue. It loitered in the cold morning fog, a small but sturdy fortress. The building was only one story and about the size of a small barn. As if time itself stopped, it too, lay in a dead quiet. An 8-foot stone wall tightly surrounded the home but for an entrance which was blocked off with a white van. Every window on the house was smothered by 2×4’s and sloppily hammered nails. The silence continued for several minutes until a slow shuffle shattered it. A decaying ghoul wandered aimlessly around its environment, looking only for its next meal. Its lifeless eyes searched the road ahead. Then, almost immediately, its head turned toward the house like a compass pointing north. It’s jaw (what was left) released and the creature let out a low, gargling moan. A moth to flame, it headed for the blocked entrance of the stone wall, arms outstretched. The Z moved closer to its newfound prey until it finally smacked into the side of the van, emitting a loud “clank” noise, followed by yet another moan.