Ragnar's massive frame slammed down onto the mountaintop, the sheer force of his landing cracking the ground beneath him. Shards of rock exploded outward, tumbling down the slopes.
He glanced down the mountainside—and sure enough, there they were. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of Xenobeasts lurking in the shadows. Hulking bodies, claws like scythes, mouths packed with razor-sharp fangs. Their eyes—each the size of a baseball—glowed with a savage, bloodthirsty light.
Carrion Reavers. A whole damn swarm of them.
The moment they caught the scent of a zombie, they stirred. Thousands of glowing red eyes snapped toward him in unison.
"Raaaargh!"
A guttural roar tore through the air, and the entire horde surged upward, scrambling toward the summit. Their twisted faces were locked in snarls, their movements wild and frenzied. The air itself seemed to hum with the promise of violence.
To Ragnar, it looked like a legion of demons clawing their way out of hell.
