A long moan arose from the undead before he turned the furnace off. Slowly he limped back to the door.
For a few moments he stared at the unshaved face of a man in his thirties. A hunter, experienced in  weapons. Still, overwhelmed with the situation.
In the doorwindow next to him, the face of a woman pressed against the glass. Slowly he retreated from the door. Light was growing dim as the evening broke.
Something else in the room, other than the furnace, was the new intended destination of the undead.

Occasionally shots aimed at undead coming up the road echoed through the house. None of the group had ever seen an undead with such a behavior as the one in the morgue. Their hopes were high that the snow would slow the undead in their movements. They produced no body heat and their tormented corpses would freeze if exposed to cold temperatures long enough.

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