towards the two, knocking Boch to the floor as his blood shot towards the ceiling and the zombie’s teeth rattled across the floorboards. The jar held by the Doctor shattered as Pierce grabbed for the gun. A wild round exploded from the chamber as Boch writhed in pain. As the gun left his hand, Wilhelm von Boch whispered his final words.

“Not all is lost…my poor friend.” His eyes rolled back and von Boch was dead.

“No, doctor. Not after tonight. Not for all time.”

He turned towards the walking inferno and shot him back to death.  After a moment, he turned to the ghoul on the table and held the gun to the monster’s forehead as he gummed the doctor’s wet flesh still clenched in his mouth. Pierce shot him through the forehead.  He walked around the table and as Boch began his all too brief resurrection, he pulled the trigger.

“Click…”

The ghoul regarded Pierce. Their eyes locked. No understanding. Pierce turned and walked out the door, into the raging night.

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“They’re freezing!” Sgt. Tripp was screaming against the frozen winds and pointing towards the zombie hoard. “Look at them!”

The guards turned their head and saw what the Sargent meant. The zombies were listless. Some were frozen upright. The wind knocked one over and it did not get up. The kid and his battered truck returned and tossed another five cans of gasoline over the fence and stood there flummoxed as nothing happened. The Sarge held out his arm. “Hold your fire. And leave those cans alone!”

Not a shot was fired after that. Instead, the soldiers and zombies circled one another and danced a macabre Waltz to the sounds of Johannes Strauss and an arctic northern gale. The camp’s sole chainsaw, of German import, if you would believe it, was primed and was ready.

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