Soft wind blew through the trees that lined the drive of Mulberry farm stirring a soothing sussuration. To the vet’s surprise though, there was a body lying halfway down the drive, splayed across the way in a defensive posture, its head turned to face the farmhouse further on. Stopping his car he got out warily, hoping for nothing stranger than a farm-machinery accident.
The body proved to be that of Jeremiah Scott and his eyes had been pecked out. The vet swallowed; horribly it looked as though the lad had been alive when it happened. He started to check the wrists for signs of binding when a cluck behind him made him turn.
A chicken stared at him, its beak reddened with blood, its eyes dull and lustreless, and its neck at an angle that meant it had to be broken. It limped forward and the vet noticed one foot had come off. It clucked again, a liquid, rotten sound.
Two more zombie chickens launched themselves from the trees and hit him full in the face, pecking fiercely at his eyes. He screamed once.