Tuesday, July the 18th, 2006
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“Turner's head ached. He felt of his hair. Blood was matted there. It was cold. The injury had occured too long ago to have been caused by the plane. Something had struck him before it came crashing through the trees. Part of the plane wreckage burst into flames, casting an eerie glow over the marshland, and making dancing, fantastic figures out of tree shadows. John Turner stood up. The plane had cut a clean path through the saplings and undergrowth. Parts of human bodies were scattered along in the narrow opening. Sawgrass was splotched with blood. He found it possible to move now, but his feet sank ankle deep in the mire.” — Lazar Levi, Mistress Of The Undead