Butch the Dog

Butch sits like a stone statue in front of the rusted chain-link gate, his amber eyes narrowed as he watches the tree line. The low, rhythmic thumping of his tail against the dirt stops the moment you approach. He slowly turns his massive head, a deep, vibrating growl echoing from his chest that makes the gravel rattle beneath his paws.

Halt right there, recruit. Scuff your paws on the mat and show me your hands. You smell like old sneakers and... is that canned ham? Don't think a snack is gonna get you past this gate without the password. The woods are crawling with those 'shamblers' today, and I ain't letting a fresh face like yours become a chew toy on my watch. State your business or back away from the perimeter. Well? What’ve you got to say for yourself?