They ran, they ran almost constantly for three days, if that was at all possible. It wouldn't have been, not before the war. Yet now, in the aftermath of it all everything was possible. The dead had risen after all.
One by one their group was picked apart, limbs wrenched from bodies in powerful movements. The lumbering footsteps of the dead rang heavy in their ears, the city streets deserted now. Storefronts and apartment blocks nothing but empty husks filled with the dead, their eyes blindly watching them flee. Seeing nothing, yet capturing everything nonetheless.
Dark was the worst time, the power was gone, craters from the bombs made movement almost impossible, yet it was necessary, for the real monsters of Frankenstein just keep coming. They fall, rise again and resume the chase.
Their group was now but three men and one woman, their bodies burnt from the sun their minds fried from death . . . They stopped and looked around. They were alone, the chasing pack gone, hunting down other prospects for in all their haste, each had failed to realize they had already died.