Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

The air was thick with the smell of smoke and sweat. Shouts echoed through the valley as the battle raged on. Chief Black Hawk stood at the edge of the hill, his breath heavy, his heart pounding like the war drums in the distance. His people, the last of the Plains Tribes, were locked in a fight for survival.

For generations, they had roamed these lands, free and untamed, but now, that freedom was being ripped from them by settlers who sought to claim what had always been theirs.

His long feathers, streaked with dust and blood, fluttered in the wind. The tomahawk in his hand was heavy with the weight of his ancestors. Every strike, every blow was not just for his people but for the spirits of those who came before. They watched over him now, their voices guiding him, pushing him forward.

At the bottom of the hill, the settlers were advancing, their weapons flashing in the midday sun. They were better armed, but the Plains warriors had something the settlers could never understand—an unbreakable bond to the land. This ground, this soil, was sacred. To die defending it was to live forever in the stories of their people.

With a roar that echoed across the battlefield, Black Hawk raised his tomahawk high and charged down the hill, his war cry piercing the sky. Behind him, the warriors followed, their painted faces fierce, their hearts burning with the fire of resistance. The earth seemed to shake beneath their feet as they met the enemy in a brutal clash of steel and flesh.

Black Hawk fought like a man possessed, his tomahawk slicing through the air, cutting down enemies one by one. The settlers, despite their numbers, faltered under the relentless fury of the warriors. But even as they fell, Black Hawk knew this was a losing battle. The settlers had too many men, too many guns. For every warrior that stood, another was struck down. Stay updated via empire

Yet Black Hawk did not stop. He couldn’t. His people were watching—his sons, his daughters, the women who sang their songs of war in the village behind them. He fought for them, for their future. Each time his tomahawk found its mark, he thought of the stories his children would tell. Not of defeat, but of honor, of courage. Nôv(el)B\\jnn

The battle raged on until the sun began to sink low in the sky, turning the horizon a fiery red. The warriors of the Plains fought until the last breath left their bodies, their war cries echoing in the stillness of the evening air. Black Hawk, wounded and weary, knelt on the ground, his blood soaking into the earth. He looked up at the sky, where the spirits of his ancestors awaited him.

With one final breath, he raised his tomahawk to the heavens and let out a final war cry—a cry that would be heard for generations to come.

And then, silence.

The battle was lost, but the spirit of the Plains people would live on forever.