Anastasia Westerbrook's Chamber of Delights Guard respond to a report of undead in Wanamingo, and undead they find; they put down the remnant of the undead horde that has been hiding out in the hills, but not before two of the sixteen good Malathian soldiers have been torn apart by the walking corpse abominations.


The last remnants of the undead horde still surface from time to time, here and there, mostly in the hill country; several of the Chamber of Delights Guard are torn to shreds in Wanamingo when a minor report turns out to be a more serious incursion, but even there they are easily victorious. There is nothing like the force that the defenders of Port Charles eventually repelled; they have all gone away somewhere, or been destroyed - but who could destroy so many?


You hear nothing further from Help Me, the three walking corpse abominations that got as far as Wanamingo last season; still, they've done their job already, even more than you might have reasonably expected.


From up in the hill country, a villager ran.

"Undead! Undead!" he cried breathlessly.

Once he was calmed down enough to speak, our worried faces half intent on him, half looking out across the fields in case the great encroachment happened any second now, he explained himself: there were two of the walking dead, attempting to tear down Wanamingo village.

Relieved, we marched resolutely out to stop them. Two mindless walking corpses? A walk in the park, compared to the terror we had expected.

There was no sign of the things as we got closer to the village, although there were dents in the walls where one of them had been trying to eat a shack, or something. We turtled up, proceeded cautiously, looked around every corner...

That's when the screaming started.

It had jumped off a roof straight onto her head, all feral and clawed, its hands worn down to sharp points; an old lady, once that had been someone's grandmother, but now it had half her face off and was gnawing at her neck.

We cut it down, of course, but she could do nothing but whimper and beg for release; a surgeon might have saved her, but they'd never have saved her face, they'd have had to replace her eyes, and she always prided herself on her sharp shooting - would any other eyes be as good? And there was the biting, too - we never knew if it really was infectious.

I'm afraid we respected her wishes. A bullet through the head.

We knew there was at least one more out there somewhere, and now we had a new respect for the enemy. Keeping our eyes out in all directions, we saw the next shambler before it got through the door. Shots rang out; no more walking for that monstrosity.

It was on our way back that the small child crawled out of the barn, and he moved instinctively to scoop it up; we knew there was no-one around, so she must have been lost - or abandoned. She was much, much lighter than he expected - and much, much sharper, as claws and teeth tore through his armour and into his abdomen.

There was barely a fight, but he was already dead.

We devoutly hope that was the last of the undead in Malathia. Can the rest of us go home now?