The Undead -vs- Underwood Spread or what happens when my pillow eats my head
We're hunting vampires.
The Others shine flashlight beams under high school bleachers as I stride across the auditorium and leap on stage, shoving heavy velveteen curtains aside with a flourish. They're there; three caskets aligned like cots at summer camp. The Others rush over, and weapons are quickly distributed. No wooden stakes or silver bullets or gilt crucifixes for this slayer, though, I am instead presented with a long-barelled pistol packed with potted meat...so I don't, you know, accidentally shoot and wound someone on my own team. Talk about a confidence killer. Not much motivation to join the let's-attack-drac brigade when your only ammunition is a splort of smelly SPAM.