... into which what remains of the population of Ravenholm is beginning to pour. Two, three, four at a time, they come, shuffling and wailing their horrid, muffled cries. And they just. Keep. Coming. The only real mercy here is that none of them seem to have been any less than full adults when they were still alive.

Gordon's throat moves convulsively at the sight, and he begins reloading the shotgun from a box of shells he snagged along the way.