The Horde spills across the downtown bridges, ravening and howling.

“Mister Mayor?” says an aide, in the command post atop Fifth Third Tower. “We need to evacuate.”

But Abramson just watches them pour in. “No, Schneider. Today we fight back.”

“Sir?”

Abramson fishes inside his shirt and pulls out a plain white medallion. He holds it high.

“Now, damn you,” he whispers. “Now!”

The medallion flickers, then begins to glow. Outside there’s a great creaking and splintering, and then the Gallapaloozae surge into view: a hundred horses, every color and design, a fiberglass army that crashes head-on into the undead tide.