A drum. That’s what was silencing the surrounding fauna, carefully eluding his identification, and – now that he knew – slowly filling him with unease.

The fire still blazed merrily right where it should be; it was brighter, if anything. The sentries around the outer perimeter were nowhere to be seen. Now, as he got closer to the flickering orange light steadily seeping through the leaves and branches, he realized that the usual camp sounds were likewise nowhere to be found.

That was when he tripped over the first body and found himself face to face with a very dead Jenkins.

Only his lifetime of training allowed him to suppress the bile and horror that threatened to bubble forth from his mouth. He was near the clearing and the beat of the drum was loud, throbbing in his head, his ribs. Carefully, silently, he stood, loosening his sword, noting the other bodies scattered in the brush.

The witchdoctor danced manically on, seemingly oblivious to the soldier and the slowly rising ghouls.