The Zombies Got One Right

An unholy combination of cough drops, cough medicine, Vicks Night-time Flu Relief, and a pinch of mummy dust sufficed to ease the infernal sneezing from yesterday.
It also caused me to temporarily lose about 150 IQ points.  At least I hope this is a temporary loss. True, I don't use my brain very often, but it's nice to know it's there, should I be confronted with algebra or a life or death game of Pictionary.   
I feel obliged to give a bit of praise to the writers of last night's episode of The Walking Dead. One scene in particular stands out to me as a writer, and I'll tell you why.
Without giving too much away, Rick, Glen, and a grieving Herschel wind up in an empty bar in the walker-infested town they normally avoid.  To say they've had a bad day is something of an understatement.
In walk two strangers. Living strangers, not walkers.
Both groups are wary, sizing each other up. We get a sense that the two newcomers are up to no good.  Rick refuses to tell them where the farm is, or how many people are there.
The pair insists in asking.  Their manner is almost jovial -- but sinister.
Now, as a writer, I was thinking this -- how could let my readers know just how depraved and vicious these newcomers are?  How can I communicate to the readers how much danger they present to the characters we've come to know and love?
I could have the pair brag about their murderous exploits, I suppose.  Or have them make all manner of brutal and terrifying threats.  I've seen that done, time and time again, in movies and books.
But it would have been all talk.  Scary, maybe, but just some guy talking, all the same.
The show took a much more direct approach.  In the middle of the terse exchanges of dialog, one of the newcomers simply stands up and proceeds to urinate right there in the floor.  He never seeks cover.  He doesn't turn away.  He doesn't even stop talking.
He just relieves himself right there, as though doing so is the most agreeable and natural thing in the world.
That single act told us, the audience, everything we needed to know about these two strangers.  Told us that they were so far gone beyond the bounds of normal society that they had no limits.  These were men for whom any act, no matter how unspeakable or vile, was just another part of just another day.
And that makes what happened next not just plausible but inevitable.
So I tip my hat to a TV show, and that doesn't happen very often.  
And now, since I'm still loopy, I'm going to post another excerpt from a book. This one is from The Banshee's Walk, one of the Markhat books.  Enjoy!

From THE BANSHEE'S WALK:
But Gertriss wasn't listening to me or looking at meanymore. "What's that?" she asked, taking a step off the trail toward a bigswaying pine tree.
I followed her eyes.
The pine had sprouted feathers. Black feathers, crow'sfeathers, three of them arranged in a neat triangle right about eye level.
Gertriss touched the ends of them just as something streakedpast her shoulder, close enough to ruffle a few strands of her hair.
I was maybe three long strides away. She saw me coming andput up her hands and that's all she had time to do before I hit her midways andtook her down. We rolled, and she snarled and clawed. Despite my weight andexperience the only way I got her to be still was by pinning her shoulders andhead with my rucksack.
"That was a crossbow bolt," I said. "Shut up and be still."
She growled something that didn't sound much like assent butat least she quit trying to knee me in the groin.
I rolled off her, kept low and kept my rucksack in front ofme, and peeped around the big old pine long enough to scan the woods before Ipulled my fool head back. I'd seen nothing but trees and scrub, heard nothingbut wind and the far-off lowing of cattle, but I knew at least onecrossbow-wielding Markhat-hater was lurking somewhere near.
Gertriss scooted closer, biting her lip. I felt bloodrunning down my face, shrugged. "Hush," I said. "You didn't know."
"How many?" she whispered.
"I figure two," I whispered back. One to reload. One to fire.If they were smart they had at least two crossbows, probably sturdy, quietarmy-surplus Stissons.
"What do we do now?" asked Gertriss. She was eyeing myrucksack. It dawned on me that they'd wanted her dead first so she wouldn'tscream when I went down.
I shook my head. "Crossbows trump swords," I said. "So wewait."
Gertriss frowned. "Wait for what?"
I heard a tromping in the woods. They were on the move.Hoping to flush us out, flank us, just walk up and bury a pair of black-bodiedoak bolts right in our chests.
"Keep your head down low," I said. "Sidestep every thirdstep. Move fast, be quiet, and don't stop, not for anything."
Gertriss went wide-eyed. "But—"
"Just do it." I fumbled in my rucksack, found Toadsticker andyanked it out in a shower of fresh socks and at least one clean pair ofunderpants.
I stood, pulled Gertriss to her feet and gave her a shove.
Then I took a deep breath and stepped out of cover.
A couple of things happened then, more or less at the sametime. First, a muddy, wild-eyed bull calf came trotting out of the trees on theother side of the old road and sauntered right toward me, bound, I suppose, foranywhere but the cattle-paths and the stink of the slaughterhouses and thecity.
Next, from the ruined road that lead south toward Wardmoor,a pair of skinny, cloak-clad teenagers trotted up, jaws agape, their pimpledexpressions those of confusion giving quickly way to fear.
Finally, and much to my relief, dogs started barking. Out ofsight, but close and loud and getting closer and louder. I knew the Watch usesdogs outside the old walls, and I knew my crossbow-fancier knew that too.
The kids stopped, eyed my sword warily. The bull calfsnorted at me and without slowing, ambled past, passing so close I could havepatted his muddy head had I been so inclined. I suppose bleeding man,indifferent cow and upraised sword made quite a scene, because the youthsexchanged looks and took a step back before speaking.
Neither held a crossbow. Neither would have known what to dowith a crossbow had they held it.
"We're looking for a Mr. Markhat," said the taller of thetwo. He had long greasy hair and his boots didn't match. "We're supposed tomeet him and take him to Wardmoor."
"We don't have any money," said the other kid, quickly. "Andwe didn't see nothing, either."
I listened. Wind and trees and barking dogs. No telltalewhisking of bolts through pine needles, no clunk and throw of a Stisson. But Idid hear the rattle of a wagon, just around the bend, and a man urging on ahorse and another man yelling something as he laughed.
"Gertriss," I said.
"I'm here," she replied. I didn't think she'd taken morethan four steps despite my shove and my warning. She had a big stick in onehand and what appeared to be one of Mama's well-worn kitchen knives in theother.
"Come on out," I said. "Let's get moving. It's bad businessto keep the client waiting."
"So you're Mr. Markhat?" asked the tall kid. He didn't tryto hide a frown. "We made it over the old Bar bridge after all, got furtherthan we thought. What happened to you?"
Gertriss stepped out into the road, her hands suddenlyempty, pine needles in her hair, dirt on both the knees of her good newbritches.
"Nothing," I said. A fat drop of blood formed at the tip ofmy nose, and I wondered just how deep and long my new scratches were. "The cowmade lewd remarks about my apprentice. We had to have words. How far to HouseWerewilk from here?"
The wagon rolled into view. Two men rode the wagon, onedriving, one stretched out in the back with his hat covering his face. By now Iwas sure that my new friend with the crossbow and the grudge was halfway to thecattle-road if not already across it. Three barking jumping mutt-dogs followed,nipping at the wagon wheels and yelping at each other and even though they werenot and would never be huge somber-eyed Watch dogs, I could have hugged themall.
"Not far," said the greasy-haired kid, who was alreadyeyeing Gertriss with the kind of leer she'd teach him to regret if she caughthim in reach of those finely sharpened claws of hers. "You and the lady canride."
I hefted my rucksack, and only then did I discover thecrossbow bolt lodged deep within it. I'd later find it had penetrated two bootsoles and a book before stopping, as well as my best white shirt and a woolsock embroidered by Darla with my initials.
The kid saw and went pale. I shrugged. Let them think Ispend every day casually picking crossbow bolts out of everything from mylaundry to my oatmeal. If I needed to shake in fear, I'd do so later, in theprivacy of my own locked room.
Gertriss came to stand close to me and wiped pine needlesand loam off her knees. "They're gone?" she whispered.
I nodded. "For now."
I could tell by her look she was having second, third, andpossibly fourth thoughts about life as a highly paid finder. But in the end,she picked up her bag and made for the wagon, giving the leering kid a goodhard country glare as she marched.
I followed, and we got ponies and dogs and wagons turnedaround then headed down the ruined road toward the Banshee's Walk.