Silence. The trees hold still, draped in thick layers of white. Nothing moves or makes a sound; my mountain top world frozen in a moment of time. The silence ends in single sound, a muffled crunch, snow compacted by a footstep. I halt on the wall, listening, a sickening dread in my stomach. Silence. I almost think I'm hearing things when the sound comes again. A single footstep, then another. Two more. Falling snow limits my visual range. Adrenaline banishes thoughts of the cold. More steps. Closer. More numerous. I blow the warning horn I carry. The undead are here.