"..."
The horde of zombie underlings fell silent. So much for brotherhood—turns out Bighead was just pissed about his chicken.
Bighead reached up and touched his face, feeling the sticky smear of black blood on his fingertips.
His voice trembled with frustration. "I told you guys—I hate getting hit in the head!"
"So... what now?" one of the elite zombies asked.
Bighead brooded in silence. If his thousand-strong Zombie Horde were still around, no one would dare mess with him like this. But they were all wiped out... by the Zombie King of Los Angeles.
"I won't forget this," Bighead growled. "Let's go. We're reporting this to the boss."
...
And so, Bighead made his way back to their territory, heading straight for the heart of San Diego. The streets were crawling with zombies, the air thick with menace.
Up ahead, Nightbane stood in the middle of the road, giving orders to his lieutenants.
Bighead shuffled forward, looking thoroughly miserable.
"Boss... I got disfigured."
