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... ets of post-apocalyptic L.A., his gold-trimmed jacket catching the wind like a cape woven by a drama-loving deity. In his hands, a matte-black assault rifle purred with menace, ready to turn the undead into chunky salsa.
Before him surged a horde of mutated zombies—hulking, vein-popping nightmares that looked like they’d OD’d on gym supplements and expired Red Bull. Their snarling, drooling faces twisted in rage. One had a horn growing out of its forehead, growling like a demented Demon. ...
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