I'm a vivid dreamer. A nasty side affect of being a vivid dreamer is that, sometimes, I get dream hangovers. So, as my coffee cools to the perfect 'get rid of this cotton in my head' temperature, I'm going to tell you about my dream.

I was in the town where my grandmother retired, a river-front community made of mostly retirees and the odd summer home. I was there for a crab peel, and zombies happened. Well, fuck.

Advertisement

Our group managed to flail enough to fight off the zombies, and we retreated to one of the nicer houses in the area. The zombies weren't tough, but they had numbers, and we could see that we were going to be whittled away at.

Now, I have to give my dream credit: It stuck to the trope. True zombie flicks are not about how scary the zombies are. They're about how horrible we can be to each other. The people in my group started to turn on each other as we had different ideas on how to defend the house properly. Even I wasn't being that great, as my strategy was "Stay quiet and remember that you run faster than these fuckers."

At some point, I decide to hole up in the basement, where I discovered a young woman who had just been turned a few hours back. It was kind of horrific, because she knew what was happening to her, but was still fully sentient and had all of her memories. She wasn't really upset, even though the life she had planned had been ripped from her, and she was now going to be one of those mindless beasts outside. "You're scared, right now. Do they seem scared? Which would you rather be?"

Advertisement

As she let herself out, she let me know about a group that was planning an evac down the road, rather than digging in. She'd been a part of it, until she got separated from them and was bit. "If I see you later, I'll try to make it quick, okay?"

And then I woke up.