Ada struggled to shake off her attacker. It would have been so easy to ridicule her foolishness for having come to this forlorn place dressed so impractically. That her form fitting vermilion cocktail dress, sheer pantyhose, and dainty high heels had no place in a house of the dead. But Ada blamed her own carelessness, her own clumsiness that she had allowed herself to get disarmed in the face of such nightmarish decaying foes. Clear, perfect skin, slinky dresses, and run free nylons did not keep her alive. Guns keep her alive. And Ada knew it. She admonished the stupid rookie mistake in letting her firearm get away from her.
Now she wrestled with an undead nightmare as her red manicured nails swiped at the air trying to reach for her freedom from the putrid death that clung to her back.