Bursting through the cutout, wood splinters and explodes as you slam into and past the heavy body that had been behind it. Looking back you see the crumpled pile of what used to be a person -a ballplayer. Bent over backwards, neck snapped, dead gray eyes staring at you upside-down, the only semblance of humanity is a perfectly manicured mustache. Ignoring the thought that it looks like a smile, you turn and run to the ramp at full speed. Groans and shuffling footsteps grow louder… In these narrow corridors you have no chance of evading whatever they are. You need more room, as you slide down the blood slicked floors, you know your only chance is if you can make it down to the field…
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