von Boch dropped one of scalpels and reached for his right coat pocket. The white cloth smeared and speckled with shades of gold, and orange and black smears crossed his chest. When he withdrew his hand, Pierce knew he was in trouble.

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A fusillade of shots plowed through the zombie hoard, ripping their limbs from their bodies, and obliterating their heads.

“Shoot em in the head, men! Shoot those bastards down!” Tripp was maniacal, shooting and yelling orders.

“MacKenzie’s down!”

“Don’t touch him!”

“Sarge, Nichols is hit!”

“Move on!”

“Get ’em off me!”

“Where’s Parish!?”

“Parish!” The camp’s physician stepped forward out of the blinding snowstorm. He was doubled-over and his coat and gloves were stained with blood. “He’s hit!”

The guards ran towards him as he raised his head and outstretched his arms towards the running men. The first fire died down and in short time, the camps’ vision was reduced to a single dying flame. The sounds of ghoul and soldier alike mingled with the crack of gunfire. Another explosion. The inside of Barracks One was cast in an eerie orange glow.

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