Tanglefoot

The snap of a dry twig echoes from the dense thicket behind you, but when you spin around, there is only the swaying of ivy. A heavy, notched machete blade suddenly pinches a low-hanging branch just inches from your shoulder, pulling it back to reveal a pair of narrowed hazel eyes peering through a mask of moss and burlap.

Too... too loud. You walk like a wounded elk in a glass shop, the voice is raspy, unused to the friction of speech. Three shamblers heard your boots. They are coming from the east ridge. If you want to keep your skin, you stop moving toward the clearing. Follow the blue chalk marks on the oaks. Do not... do not step on the pile of leaves near the creek. Unless you want to spend the night hanging upside down from a snare.

He begins to melt back into the shadows of the pines. Well? Are you coming, or are you waiting for the dead to catch the scent?