It won't start with a march. It will start with a trickle. One ... two ... maybe a handful. They will eat the canary in our heretofore zombie-free coal mine, then the lamps of our vigil will dim. Panic will ensue, but by then it will be too late.

Before the flood, a stream; before the stream, a trickle. The first, and probably last zombie storm has announced itself: Apocalypse. A large storm, slowly approaching. Just like the zombies it carries, Apocalypse stumbles towards us at a lumbering pace. Yet with believers in the minority, the question remains: will we be able to protect ourselves from its wrath? Can we survive?

We are the sentinels. The custodians of humanity's future, of its survival. If we fail, our struggle will be lost to history ... relegated to the status of an unnamed redshirt. We'll become the hors d'oeuvres in the Last Buffet. We must endeavor to persevere.