he was living-dead,

Well…

It wasn’t surprising, really. Nothing living could have endured what he had. So…he was living-dead, then. There were worse things to be. At least he was animate and mobile. At least he had a chance for vengeance.

Best to get the lay of the land. He returned his attentions to the world around him. The sky was blood red, and there seemed to be no sun. Rather, the whole thing glowed in the deepest crimson. Interesting.

Now, the field of the dead . . . he gazed out over it. At first it seemed infinite. A single vast wasteland of arms, legs, shattered bodies, bits of flesh rotting as watched.

But, then, gradually, he realized there was a limit to it. Far, far away, almost beyond the range of his vision, there seemed to be a wall of some sort, rising and containing the spillage of cadavers. Ah.

Just then, some instinct warned him. Without thinking he threw himself to one side.

There was an enormous crash of metal. He whirled about to see a huge metal scoop or claw, like the open mouth of a steam shovel, crashing into the mound of bodies. He watched as it closed around a great mouthful of the dead, and then rose into the air, spilling bits of flesh as it did.