A plague of zombies infesting the Scottish Isles was something Seamus didn’t imagine anyone had been prepared for. Out here in the backyard of nowhere, the Highlanders fended for themselves and so he and a hundred others found themselves sheltered from the menace behind high stone walls. As the de facto leader, Seamus stayed a busy man.
Of late, raiders had begun spending the better part of the day lobbing zombies into their courtyard by means of a pair of ancient trebuchets. That was a damned unsporting way to wage war, Seamus felt. Quite inventive, he admitted, but damned unsporting. They’d been back twice since and it was really becoming rather annoying. Unless things changed, his folk would be overwhelmed by flying animated corpses. That simply wouldn’t do.
He wasn’t sure who came up with the solution but when things calmed down he intended to make sure they were suitably rewarded. As if by some unspoken cue, the first of the rotting projectiles sailed over the walls and his people sprang into action.
The zombie was wrestled to the ground, the package secured on its back and then plenty of duct tape immobilized it. Atop the battlements, they tossed the gruesome thing into the box of their own trebuchet.
Bending over, he touched his cigar to the fuse. Triggering the release, he was rewarded with the sight of the attackers being doused in flaming bits of airborne, exploded zombie. Never try to out-unsportsman an angry Scot, he grinned.