The group stood, leaning on a wooden fence, watching the farmer zombie pulling the cow on a rope into an open barnyard area. The zombie stared at the cow with wide-eyed bloodlust. Some of the other zombies had taken notice and watched the reluctant cow step hesitantly into the empty pen. Some of the zombies began to shamble toward it. The cow fidgeted, starting to look nervous.
“The zombies must consume raw flesh every few days in order to slow the decomposition process,” Schmidt continued.
The cow now became more nervous by the minute, eyes wide, desperately tugging on the rope that held it. The farmer zombie held the rope with its left hand, using the right one to pull an old-fashioned steel bolt gun, the kind that blasts a retractable steel rod into an animal’s head for slaughter, from the front pocket of his coveralls. The rest of the zombies came ever closer, circling tightly around the cow.
“So we allow them, by verbal command of course, to feed on livestock every few days, in order to remain in working order,” Schmidt concluded.
“Gaah!” the farmer zombie groaned.
The group of onlookers stood next to the fence, the mainlanders dumbfounded into silence. Only Marija, thanks to her thick skin and professional experience, mustered the will to question the doctor. She had a judgmental, questioning expression, her eyebrows arched skeptically. She held up her small digital recorder.
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