Noninja approached one set of double-doors that led to the theater floor, checking it for traps. “Ready to deal with more zombies?” he asked.

Lorarona’s expression became queasy. “Ugh…if we have to.”

“Hey, don’t look so down,” Miles kidded. “Maybe some of them used to be famous!”

She glowered at him and then gently pushed the door open. It led to a small room with another set of double-doors. Noninja did his usual due diligence on the second set.

“What’s the point of two sets of doors?” Miles groused. “Just burning money?”

“It’s to preserve the theater’s light level,” Lorarona explained. “You don’t open the second set until the first set has closed.” She put her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes. “Have you ever been to a theater?”

“Not this kind,” Miles jested. “I’m more of the ‘open air’ type. Arenas, convicted criminals battling to the death, that sort of thing.”

Lorarona sighed. “Then I’m sure you’ll feel right at home with the zombies.”

Miles glared as he pushed through the double-doors. The others followed.

As their eyes adjusted to the dim light, they could see the curtained stage on the far side, rows and rows of pew-like seating, and five staggering figures spread across the floor. Their clothing was not tattered; they appeared to be wearing jumpsuits, all identical. The nearest one labored to repair a seat with a hammer. One held a piece of scaffolding as another, standing on a ladder, attached it to some supports. One fussed with hairstyling equipment, while another sorted through a pile of props.

Clancy suddenly sneezed. The others turned to scowl at him. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “It’s dusty in here!”

All five zombies turned toward the noise, pointed, and hissed loudly. “Oh, great,” Miles groused. “This whole theater is dusty, and now you sneeze?”

Clancy looked pained. “I can’t account for my nose! It has a mind of its own.”

Miles rolled his eyes. “Wonderful timing.” He looked at the slowly approaching zombies. Two staggered along the aisles, closing in on them. Two others climbed clumsily over the pews, their speed cut in half. The last remained standing on the ladder, continuing to point and hiss.

Lorarona summoned a theorbo, swinging it into position and putting her fingers on the frets. “I might be able to slow them down with a song,” she offered. “It could give us an edge.”

Miles raised his greataxe as Noninja unsheathed his katana. “Go!”

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Lorarona began strumming her theorbo, waving gently to the music. The two zombies in the aisles stopped suddenly, staring blankly in her direction. Then, without warning, they raised their arms in the air and began dancing. One raised a rusty lantern, its glass insides long missing. The other three continued to climb over the pews, unaffected.

Miles gave Lorarona a bewildered look. “Is that Rikki’s song?”

She smiled. “I can’t help it! It’s really catchy! And besides,” she added, nodding toward the zombies, “it’s working!” The zombies, no longer content to merely wave their arms, were now swaying to the rhythm, with what appeared to be giddy smiles upon their faces.

Miles shrugged. “At least they get to die happy.” He and Noninja sprinted off, closing the distance to the two dancers. A couple of quick slashes, and the zombies toppled to the ground.

A parasol streaked through the air like a missile, hitting Miles in the chest. “Ow!” he exclaimed. A hurled cane barely missed Noninja.

Clancy turned to Lorarona. “They’re using props as weapons?” Lorarona merely shrugged as she shifted her performance from fascination to inspiration. Something hit Clancy, burning his skin. He and Lorarona watched the hot curling iron drop to the ground.

“Oh, that is it!” Clancy growled as he slipped some sort of wiry mechanical glove onto his hand. He pointed into the theater and twitched his finger. Three energy-darts left his hand, sped toward the remaining zombies, and hit them forcefully, knocking the one off the ladder and causing him to tumble gracelessly to the floor.

Lorarona was so surprised, her performance faltered for a moment. “Three magic missiles? Isn’t that beyond your class level?”

Clancy smiled as he removed the glove. “It must be your spirited performance.” She gave him a worried look as he chortled, rubbing his hands together.

Noninja streaked toward the scaffolding, barely dodging a thrown pipe wrench, before hovering over the fallen zombie and stabbing him with his katana. The zombie stopped moving immediately. Miles bounded through the seats, taking a hot curling iron to the chest before driving his greataxe into the zombie; it collapsed onto a seat and then tumbled clumsily to the floor.

The last zombie had finally made it past the seats, and was now stumbling along the aisle, fixated on Lorarona and Clancy. With bemused expressions, Noninja and Miles closed on it as Lorarona threw her theorbo at it. Distracted by the impact, the zombie offered no resistance as the katana pierced its neck just as the greataxe cut it down. The sound of the zombie crumpling echoed slightly in the cavernous theater.

The team surrounded their fallen foe, chuckling to themselves. “Zombies,” Miles chuckled. “Piece of cake.”

Clancy downed a cure-light-wounds potion; the curling-iron burn healed. “Need one, buddy?” he asked Miles as he appeared to nurse a hand injury.

“Nah,” Miles dismissed. “That curling iron only singed my armor.” He looked down at the new burn mark. “Kind of neat, actually! It gives my armor some character!”

Lorarona looked concerned. “Clancy? Is your hand all right?”

He continued to massage his arm. “It will be. Just a little sore.”

She frowned. “What was that glove thing?”

Before he could answer, they became aware of a loud creaking sound coming from the orchestra pit, of metal grinding upon metal. From out of the pit climbed a skeleton, wearing breastplate armor and a horned helmet that made him look like a devil. Standing seven feet tall, with broad shoulders to match, he carried a flaming bastard sword, and pointed it at them. As his eyes glowed with an unearthly indigo light, he let out a bone-crunching wail.

Lorarona turned to Miles. “Piece of cake, right?”

Miles didn’t answer, the fear in his eyes palpable.