Before Oswid's gravestone.
Sweat ran into Clint's eyes, blurring his vision. Spirituality Power coated his cane as he swung it in a flurry of afterimages. He dared not let his guard down. Mud hands kept emerging, darting about like giant pythons, leaving him feeling as though he stood in a jungle of vines. Meanwhile, Bradley, the Living Dead, had vanished from his sight.
Not a trace of his presence remained.
Bradley certainly hadn't left. He was lurking somewhere, waiting for an opening. But Clint was growing tired. His aging body, the old injuries from twenty-one years ago, and all his ailments tormented him constantly. He had no idea how much longer he could hold out.
Then I'll hold out until I die!
For the captain!
As Clint fought desperately, he failed to notice that Bradley was already standing before him, silently reaching toward his chest.
The moment Bradley's palm pressed against Clint's chest.
In an instant, Clint's movements froze. So did Bradley's. The wildly flailing mud hands stopped that same instant, and even the leaves hung motionless in midair.
Clint's eyes widened. He had no idea when Bradley had gotten so close. How had he appeared here, right in front of him, within arm's reach?
Only when piercing pain surged into his brain did Clint instinctively glance down at his chest. The hand of Bradley, who called himself a Living Dead, was already pressed against it. A large patch of flesh had begun to rot beneath his palm, and the decay was spreading throughout Clint's body.
After that instant of pain, Clint felt his body go numb. He wanted to swing his cane at Bradley, but he could no longer lift his hand. The Spirituality Power within him began to wither.
He could no longer even feel his body.
In