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In the sweltering summer heat, raucous laughter and shrieks of feigned terror flooded the air while children bolted around the back yard, pointing their fingers at each other and spewing mock gunfire sounds. Those caught in the imagined crosshairs fell to the ground, moaning and sputtering before falling still, only to rise again later as self-proclaimed zombies, their dust-caked clothing adding to the ruse. Milton was soon among the last few survivors amid the horde of encroaching undead fiends. Holed up beneath the jungle gym on the playground, he took his last stand, pointing his index finger at his best friend, though the subsequent sound produced was far louder than the simple pews he and his contemporaries shouted before, and the screams that erupted thereafter were no longer feigned terror, but the mournful cries of a mother as she rushed to her child, lying dead on the ground from the gaping wound beneath his eye.
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