Flash Fiction - Undead

It's sometime after noon on a Wednesday, I think. I don't have room to carry a calendar, and I stopped wearing a watch when the Earth fell into Hell. Today, I can report that the undead have learned to climb, so ladders are no longer a viable escape option. They can follow us. Our team got lucky, this time. Hopefully we make it back so that these reports are read and our efforts are not in vain. It has been some time since our expeditions out of the sanctuary have seen loss of life, but I fear that our luck may be running out, and the dead are catching up with us. We may no longer take comfort that even the dead die eventually.

While on a scouting expedition, our reconnaissance team stumbled into a herd of walkers, just as has happened before. In the past, we have found that, in most cases, we are able to avoid without incident. Our latest excursion has proven that we had become complacent, that our preparations may have not been enough, that our comforts had been a luxury we would even now have to abandon. What we believed to be a biological anomaly has led us to believe otherwise. The dead of man had not simply come back, they were attempting to supplant mankind. They were not decomposing material with leftover impulses. They were growing more intelligent and capable. The dead were being reborn, though more like dying in reverse. Life ended, then began to rewind. The world was better when life was a one-way street.

To be continued?