The zombies attack in a frenzy of insatiable desire for human flesh. They surround the boys in a slow zombie walk, at least twelve of them in all. They swat at Hans, who holds his milkshake in his arms like a newborn baby.

“What now?” Hans asks. “We’re surrounded.”

“Like zoinks, dude, I don’t know,” Dan answers. “They’re lactose intolerant and stuff so give them some milkshake — toss it at ’em and see what happens. What the hell do I know?”

“Nein! Ich habe angst!”

“You cowardly Kraut,” Dan says. “Here, give me you’re shake.”

“Nein! Meine milkshake!”

“Let go of it, man! Dude, you’re acting like a little Hitler on dope! Cut it out!”

“Meine milkshake!”

“Dude, give it to me! Dude, I’m not kidding!”

“Nein! Nein! Meine milkshake! Meine milkshake!”

As they fight over the milkshake, it spills to the ground in a splattered goop! Hans stares at the zombies, encircling the two boys in a ring of death.

“Dude, look what you did now!”

“Meine milkshake!”

“We’re screwed!”

“Meine milkshake!”