Jacques

Jacques Cousteau faced the open doorway of the zeppelin, feeling the wind in his beard. Behind him, the werezombie crew was beginning to stir from their slumber. If he was still in the vessel when they regained their limited faculties, he would be torn to pieces in their unending search for polysaturated fats.
Jacques spat a clot of phlegm to test the zeppelin's speed. Fast, but not fast enough.
Unless.
Jacques ran into the depths of the dirigible, leaping over the twitching bodies and dodging their already-grasping limbs. He hopped down an open hatch to the boiler room. He found the case on the wall, and he removed a bicuspid to work the lock open.
It was hot in the boiler room, and the exhausting work of fine motor movements was taking its toll on Jacques. May the Pinguen people forgive me he thought as he removed his +5 Parka of Uncomfortable Temperature Increase. It disintegrated in the air, and from the ash came a wisp of steam that looked suspiciously like an omen to warn him that things of a primarily negative nature would befall him at some unspecified point in the future because of his rash action rose from it.
Cooler now, Jacques was able  to concentrate his thoughts on the task at hand, and soon popped the case open. Inside were but two things. A collapsed hang-glider, which he quickly set up, and a plasma whip. This he secreted in his bicuspid's previous slot, and so prepared, he readied for flight.
By the time the lycanthropic undead arrived, the only evidence Jacques had ever been there was the gaping hole in the wall.