Villagers run blurred across a vague flat land, fleeing a set or country infested by Nosferatu. There is a flying plague in the air, which came in by boat in a bunch of hives yesterday, down in the now-empty town at the end of the long, yesterday-dried river, a floating route that once led to the bloody sea, and now is used as a mud mine by those local porcelain makers still alive and able to make a living.     The masses of the dead knew this, and had arrived to murder me, each with the same reason under a different name. É