They never expected to find him here. The museum had seemed like a good place to barricade themselves, with its thick concrete walls and impenetrable vaults. Plus, why would a zombie go to a museum? A shopping mall or airport, sure. Teeming masses of tasty humanity ripe for the picking. Nothing teemed at a museum.

Gordon led a group of survivors. Carrying whatever weaponry they could find or loot, they descended into the basements of the museum.

There, in the darkness, a figure sat in front of a canvas. It was painting a rather boring landscape piece, a farmhouse and clouds. Dark, lank hair lay across a rotting scalp. Gordon didn’t hesitate, firing three quick shots right into the back of its head. The others fanned out behind him.

Gordon turned the corpse over with the barrel of his rifle. It looked familiar. A tiny dark moustache and deep-set eyes. He was still wearing his uniform with the eagle and iconic four-armed symbol, but he didn’t look as angry as Gordon remembered from the history books.