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It was dark, except for the searchlights and bonfires. Swords of bright white cleaved the sky, while swatches of red stained the horizons in different places. It was a fine April night in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, warmer than normal, mild rain, and a low Trioxin count in the air.

Enoch and his friends had a great game for nights like this. They would sneak out of their parents' houses, after interrupting the alarms, through the escape hatches, and make their way to South Street Cemetery. This cemetery was many acres, and dated back to the 1700's, and provided ample material for the game.

“Equipment check,” said Enoch, as they gathered in his family's bomb shelter.

They each carried a police style mag light, a portable motion sensor, and an Emergency Alert Radio. Roger showed the flamethrower, his project from mechanic-shop that had earned an A, and a parent-teacher conference.

Ed had his birthday present shotgun, and several hundred shells in easy reach.

Eric had Trioxin anti-dote (just in case).

Enoch, himself had a small, powerful, bass heavy, MP3 player, loaded with classic Punk, Speed Metal, and Rap uploaded from his father's collection. He called it the Thumper after the device in “Dune” used for calling sandworms.

Larry produced the most important piece of equipment, a Louisville Slugger.

“Let's hit it”, said Enoch.

A quick check of the shelter's motion sensors revealed no possible danger, and the teenagers climbed the ladder into a promising spring night. They walked in silence, down the dark sidewalk, all in black, alert to any noises. When they reached the grounds of the Little Harbor Elementary School, long closed for being too close to the cemetery, they stopped a few moments to check sensors and radios.

“Enoch, ya ever wonder what it was like to be a kid before the curfew?” asked Larry.

“Yeah. But I don't think it would be much different. Cops would still hate us.”

That got a murmur of amused agreement.

“We'd probably be so bored we'd be breakin' windows and smokin' dope.” said Roger.

“Like our parents used to.”

The moment of wistful reflection ended, and the boys found their path to the cemetery. They'd been doing this so long they had a hard time finding a likely place to set up. Eventually they found one, an area with graves from 1911 to 1985. Enoch placed the thumper on a headstone from 1963.

“Kennedy's big year.” They all excelled in History. Among other things, it aided with the game, letting them know how to find the most likely players. “We set?” Enoch said looking at the circle they formed.

Ed handed the shotgun to Larry, Larry gave Ed the bat, and Ed took his position twenty feet in front of the stone, took a deep breath, and nodded.

Enoch pressed play. The bass rumble off Public Enemy, conducting itself through the stone into the ground. The sound was barely audible from even a few feet away, but did its intended trick. Right after “Welcome to the Terrordome”, and part way through Metallica's “Master of Puppets”, the sod of the grave began to push up. A pale hand broke free, and then the top of a head. After a few moments, the corpse stood up fully. It was dressed in an odd assortment of plaids, and was startlingly well preserved. It had been buried long before cremation had become mandatory, and the embalming had even withstood the ravages of time, and repelled the 245 Trioxin in the rain. Until recently, that is.

“Brains!” it wheezed in delight. It was stiff from embalming, and did not run, but lumbered achingly towards Ed.

Ed looked annoyingly bored at the things progress.

“Great. This ain't even practice.” He leaned on the bat like it was cane, and waited. When the corpse was within five feet, Ed swung the bat knocking the head off in one try. The head, now just limber enough to bite, bounced off of Larry. Its fervent chomping caused it to bite the hand of its own body on the rebound.

“Fifty points.” Said Enoch.

Ed and Larry traded off again, Ed only marginally pleased with his turn.

Before they could gather the equipment, the cemetery entrances lit up with millions of candlepower of light.

“Fuck, the cops” said Enoch. The boys got into their escape mode, checking to be sure no identifying materials would be left. Seeing it was so, they made their way back the path.

Before leaving Larry made sure to put the amputated head into the hands of its body, and pushed the whole package toward the nearest gate.

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