Herbert Jr. was nowhere as good at tracking as his father had been. Herbert Sr. had been one quarter Choctaw, and his grandfather had taught him the skill, but he had never bothered to pass it along to his own son.
These particular tracks in the snow were easy to follow. They described labored, shuffling steps in otherwise undisturbed snow. Herb kept the shotgun broken over his forearm. He was certain it was a zombie even before he found the severed foot and the tracks became a streak of corruption. Up ahead somewhere would be the rest of it, crawling.