Z-Day. The end of civilization. The beginning of an age where humanity is scattered, decimated, and engaged in nothing but survival in the face of the zombie hoards. In this post-apocalyptic wasteland, one family of gunslingers is having fun.
"Five strands of rusty barbwire, held up by widely spaced cedar posts. Just a cow fence. Good enough to keep most bovines from trying to get through, and known to tangle up a zombie now and then, but unfortunately, it don’t do much against smarter foes--like people. I use the term liberally when I’m talkin’ about rustlers. They ain’t real smart and callin’ them people is a compliment. But they can work a pair of side-cutters and cut a hole in our fence like the one I was staring at.
“Tracks are still fresh,” I heard Hanna say. “Musta been made since this mornin’ cause the wind howled all night, as usual.” Sliding off her horse, she squatted down for a better look. “Only one set, Will.” She looked out over the sandy desolation in the direction the tracks led and grinned.
That smile wasn’t what most folks would call pleasant. It was anticipatory, predatory, two hundred odd years of gunslingin’ lead-dealing history rolled up into a short, skinny, red-headed young’un.
I reckon mine looked about the same."