A thirteen zombie collective
Pushes toward the soldier.
All of their weight falling on both
Heels and toes simultaneously,
While his tactical steps lead them.
Bodies worn, waiting for release,
Fall forward, caught by another step.
Arms avoid movement by pushing
On weapons strapped to their shoulders,
Disregarding their leader's poise.
Spine, a clamp compresses the base
Powered by cumbersome gadgets.
Decrepit bodies aching sore.
The pack halts as the one scours
His surroundings for glory lost.
Thirteen drones attempt to secure
An insurmountable sea of
Semi-populated windows.
Each pane lowers the interest
Of their job and knees are taken.
Wait a few minutes too long for
A wave to signify a safety
Compromised through it's assurance.
A low moan rumbles from within
As they trail the hungry shepherd.
Lumbering through the battlegrounds,
Apathy dictates the motion
Of the thirteen other-than-dead.
Apathy, the infectious bite
Becomes the only driving force.
