Kaito tightened the strap of his backpack, adjusting the grip on his baseball bat. The wood was splintered, caked in a white, paste-like substance that dried hard as cement. He stood at the intersection of 4th Street and the Shrine Road. Usually, this time of evening, the street would be packed with tourists buying souvenirs—katanas, masks, plush toys. Now, it was a graveyard of dropped shopping bags and abandoned takoyaki stands.
It started three weeks ago, not with a bang, but with a hunger. It wasn't a virus in the traditional sense, nor a curse from some ancient scroll. It was the rice. onigatownofthedead
The Starch Walkers.
A low moan vibrated through the air, not from a single throat, but from a chorus. From the side streets, from the shop doorways, they emerged. Dozens of them. Their pale faces luminescent in the dark. The stuck-together masses of the town's population. Kaito tightened the strap of his backpack, adjusting