The last place Phil wanted to be in the bad part of town in the middle of the night. He’d expected to find an unsuspecting hunting ground on his three hundredth birthday, not a ghost town.
Putting his hands in his jean jacket’s pockets, he turned to head back to his home and warm blood.
After a couple of blocks, he stopped and stared at what was left of a couple of people. A pair of hunched, chewed over individuals shambled toward him as others continued eating.
Happy three hundredth to me. His fangs extending, he launched toward the zombies.