1Dean jumped as he heard the old man cock a gun and saw him point the muzzle of it at his forehead.

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" Dean screamed and held the man at gun point. The man slowly got to his feet. "Drop the gun." The man resisted. "I said drop the gun! I'll have no problem taking out your other eye!" The gun slipped from the man's hands and hit the concrete. He threw his hands up over his head in an arthritic arch to signify surrender.

"What the Hell are you doing here?" The old man asked, a scowl spreading across his gaunt, deathly looking features.

"We're filming for Romero, would you mind stepping into this shot for a minute?" Dean said sarcastically. "What the Hell do you think we're doing, smart-ass?" The old man shrugged and let out a sigh. Dean approached the altar with caution and ran his fingers over the silky tablecloth.

"You do this?" Muttered Dean.

"I, uh-"

"Looks like some pretty intense stuff, man. You into the whole necromancy deal, Short Timer?"

"Look man, I don't mean to be-"

"Shut Up." Dean carefully placed the goblet back to it's upright position and observed the human bones littering the alter top.

"I really just don't get you people." He raised his eyebrows in question, tapped his temple with the shaft of the gun and gave one of his killer smiles. "I mean, what do you not understand about the word 'dead'? Do we need to put it in other terms or something? Deceased. Defunct. Perished. BELLY UP." He emphasized the last two words with great diction, then shrugged, the leather of his jacket puckering and loosening. "I mean, I don't know about you, buddy, but the whole un-dead zombie thing... it just doesn't have a purpose. You want to say some last words to your mom? Tough shit, man. She's dead. And she wasn't meant to come back to life." He paused. "And... eat the living. That's... disgustingly sadistic." Sam started firing bullets into the hunched, approaching masses of dead bodies. Some scaled the ceilings and others clawed at the ground to pull themselves forward, their nails making that nails-on-a-chalkboard sound. Sam readied another shot and took aim, then pulled the trigger. The gun fired a blank.

"Dean!" Sam cried from the hall. Dean held up a finger to the man and turned in Sam's direction. "Can you cut the macho shit and get your ass out here?" Dean kept the pointed gun at the center of the man's forehead, but stepped slowly backwards towards his brother. He peered out into the approaching masses of dead bodies, crawling about the ground like dead moss and shriveled vines.

"Shit." He muttered, and crinkled his nose at the smell. "Watch him." Dean demanded, gesturing with his chin to the slouched old man. He pressed himself against the wall, gun pressed to his sweat drenched cheek, and when ready, ducked into the hallway and sprayed ammo into the prefrontal area of a decaying soldier, using the wall as a crutch in place of his non-existent right leg. Sam approached the altar and quickly glanced over it, his eyes playing against the off white, porous human bones sprawled every which way. Some theology text from Stanford bombarded his thoughts and he pieced together the bits of necromancy that he had absent-mindedly studied in his free time. He licked at his chapped lips and cried out for Dean.

"What?!" Dean cried out in an annoyed tone.

"We've got to destroy the altar to stop them from coming back to life. We gotta torch the sucker!" Dean's Zippo catapulted across the room and Sam made a daring reach, catching the Zippo between his middle and pointer finger. Sam shuffled around in his pants pockets and fisted a canister in his grasp. He pulled back the flip-top and protected the flame from the incoming draft with a cupped hand, and dosed the altar in a thick, syrupy coat of kerosene from the canister. The altar, the human remains and the black silk cloth becoming embraced in flame and charcoaled bits of bone, stone and fabric shrivel on the cold, cement floor.

"Sammy, you torch the thing yet?" Dean called from the hallway, reloading his gun with bullets and squeezing the trigger.

"Yeah, it's burning right now!" Sam yells.

"They're not friggin' disappearing!" Sam furrowed his eyebrows in confusion.

"Maybe they have to be shot again. You know, to finish them off."

"God dammit. Sammy, get your ass in here and help me take 'em down!" The two of them step out into the hallways and split up, each taking a different flank of the ongoing, never-ending passage back up towards the surface. Dean yelled back to his brother.

"I'll find Blair, you kill those sons-of-undead-bitches and meet me up top!"

"Roger!" Sam called behind him, unloading three bullets on an old man with a wilted purple boutonniere, dropping, rotted skin and practically no facial features whatsoever. Dean gunned down a couple, watching them as they slunk against the wall behind them, smearing blood and brain matter on the concrete. He rushed up a flight of stairs, and pivoted on his back leg to stare down the staircase. Mutilated bodies crawled up the incline with sickening creaks as their bones broke and the occasional spattering of loose intestines as they were dragged behind the deteriorating form of their owner.

"Son-of-a-bitch." He muttered, loading another cartridge and tossing the used one to the floor. He knew he couldn't get all five of them at once with a .45. He unzipped his leather jacket and shoved his hands greedily in the hidden pocket, grabbing the small, but sharp bladed throwing knives in his fists, blades out. He put each individual blade between each different finger and splayed his fingers, releasing the blades with a flick of his wrist. They flew in their calculated directions, burrowing in the sunken, grotesque eye-sockets of the approaching, rotting bodies. He hadn't expected it to work in all honesty; his father had taught him how to throw knives at nine, and he hadn't practiced ever since. He raced off down the hallway, almost tripping on his own two feet as he awkwardly gained speed. His foot caught on a wet patch and sent him face first down to the gravel, breaking his jaw and making him land in a haphazard position. He felt one of his teeth shattered and spat out the broken shards, then wiped the blood from his slack, hanging jaw with the back of his hand. He placed his hands out in front of him to push himself up, but paused as the viscous, thick liquid bubbled up between his fingers. He held his hand up directly in front of his face, and raised an eyebrow at the massive amount of blood dribbling down his wrists and arms. Dean lit another match, and held it out in front of him, the flame catching the dark red crimson skid marks zigzagging across the cobblestone before him. Nail marks and fingerprints ran ahead in tendrils and the light from the match illuminated the tattered, torn dress and the sickly pale skin clinging to rotted, brittle bones. Dean's face became contorted and pasty, and his breathing accelerated. He swallowed.

"Blair?" He cracked his jaw and stepped off to the side, avoiding the puddle of blood at his feet and looked down at the mangled, carved body of his fiance. Her face was sickly pale and cut up, blood trickling down her cheeks and neck like raindrops. He knelt down beside her and wiped the stray, bloody strands of hair away from her face. A tear formed in the corner of his eye, but he made no effort to wipe it away. He hid his face in his palm and choked back tears, holding his breath to stop the tears and sobs from coming out. He felt a cold, boney hand on his knee, and peered out between his fingers. Blair's eyes were wide open and she looked absolutely petrified. He bent in to kiss her forehead, but met her half way as she bolted up and hissed at him like a pissed off cat. He teetered backwards and fell on his ass, skittering away as Blair writhed and vomited blood all over the front of her gown.

"Holy Shit!" He screamed and pressed himself against the wall in fear. His heart rate sky-rocketed and he black-out for a moment, Blair's hostile screams racking his eardrums and drilling into his brain.