George swung, and the bat struck the zombie in the jaw, causing it to stumble. When it regained its footing, the jaw was hanging by a thin shred of skin.
From outside the cage, Rankin said, “Again. Aim higher.”
He was momentarily transfixed by the gore dripping off the end of the aluminum bat. It was thick, more like jelly than liquid blood.
“Come on, hit it again.”
George remembered a spring day when he was ten, coming up to bat in little league. His father, yelling encouraging clichés from the bleachers. It seemed so long ago, so far away.