José crossed himself when he saw who it was—or, rather, what it was.
Now he knew what had happened to his missing patrols.
He heard a small gasp from Consuela, but he could not tear his eyes away from the shambling, decayed parodies of humanity that had lurched into view on the trail. Shreds of their uniforms hung off their twisted limbs, the wounds that had killed them clearly visible through the rags. Hoses from the dull metallic tanks on their backs circled their tortured bodies and entered their chests in several places.
“The dead have risen from the grave,” he breathed.