“May as fucking well be,” Brandon shrugged a shoulder and nodded his head. “Big motherfuckers with Popeye arms. Strong enough to bust over a gas pump at a gas station.” When Brandon had gone to help rescue George and Lucas in Ossining, he'd seen it happen. They were capable of flipping cars, and if the compound was unprepared, it wouldn't take them long to bust down the walls. “It's fucked up.”
Finishing off the first—of what would probably be many—glass of scotch, he waved down the bartender for another one. He didn't waste time, taking another drink and looking down at the bar for a minute. “If the regular fuckers can mutate into those, you've gotta kinda wonder what else is in store for us.” Brandon wasn't a sciencey type like his sister Lilah, but that didn't mean he didn't wonder about shit like that either. What was next, fucking flying zombies? Or ones that could spit acid or dig in dirt? Wouldn't that just be fantastic. They finally had a somewhat fucking comfortable place with thick walls, and the zombies evolved to get around that.
“Tell me about it,” Brandon agreed, rolling his eyes. “Got a sister who's a science brain, she'd probably say some shit about it being evolution and it getting worse before it got better or something that was probably supposed to be comforting but turned out making shit worse.” A snort of a laugh.