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He woke up the next morning in a strange environment. It was pitch black and kind of warm. He sat up quickly, thinking perhaps he had dreamed the whole thing. He felt around until he found some type of handle. He depressed it and a door flew open the brightness stung his eyes, but he could still see several figures in the distance. In about a minute his eyes had adjusted. Before him, on the black pavement, there was a broken bottle of champagne. Just then the memories of the previous day came flooding back, along with a killer hangover. He fell back and clutched his forehead in pain; headaches had not been a part of his life for some time.

It was then he started to pay attention to the groans. The noises got closer as he tried to slide back in the van, but he could barely move. He was stuck. He managed to pull his head up and look. Massive armies of the undead were streaming at him. He might have cried, but it didn't seem right, given his status. The creatures lunged at him, feasting on his warm, pulpy entrails.

His eyes dilated as he looked at the sky, it would probably be his last time. He imagined his face looked very much like that of Miss Patricia Tomlinson, though he was not screaming. No, his final thought passed through his head. It wasn't right to scream. It would have been more appropriate to laugh at the irony of it all. He had once been one of the most influential film directors of his time. He had once been George Andrew Romero.