Twenty feet up, he surveyed the surrounding countryside: you could see all the way down to the old highway from where the tree-house hung from the old black oak. Usually there were no zombies within view — there were fences and natural obstacles that tended to isolate this spot — but today he had a visitor.
She was older, well-dressed, and entirely intact; she must have died of the disease, rather than being bitten. She ambled up the hill to stop, looking up and moaning, at the base of the ladder.
“Sorry,” he said, and went to get the crossbow.