You can hear zombie-Spiers pursuing you as you stagger back toward first, eyes straining against the sun to pierce the darkness of the dugout, searching for signs of an open door. As you pass the rotting corpse of Jim Gantner, his hand reaches up and grabs your leg, spinning you back toward second base. Spiers is only a few paces away. Gantner rises behind you, arms and mouth stretched wide. Turning to face him, you throw your shoulder into his chest. The sickening crack of ribs is made worse by the dull, wet splatter of what used to be his internal organs hitting the infield dirt. He stumbles back a few steps, but then continues at you, hunger in his cold, dead eyes. You spin, half dazed, staggering away. Sweat drips down your face. You see it fall, along with the small cloud of dust that rises with each splashing drop. As you raise your eyes, Spiers is still coming toward you, arms raised and base still in hand.