Violence is Never the Answer, Except When it is. 

A zombie apocalypse. I’m staying inn a safe place, a town where everyone works together to defend the boundaries. I won’t fight. I won’t support violence, even against the already dead. I feel bad. Guilty. 
A new wave of zombies hits the town. I observe as people run to their posts. I don’t know what to do. I stand by a shop being used as a command centre. The defenders are over run, trapped on the wrong side of a deep, empty moat. 
I wake up. I’m in shallow water. A beaver talks to me, tells me that there’s a blanket and a weapon nearby. A zombie stumbles from the undergrowth. I hit him with the pole. The beaver was an hallucination. I climb up the bank. Other zombies are nearby. Different. Mutated. I slip and slide into the bushes, jogging along a path, wishing I was fitter. 
I meet others. Another safe place. Lots of vehicles parked together. The scene changes. Like a game I’m watching from above, I direct invaders, outflanking the defenders. Then I’m in the game, with an old workmate. We keep failing a particular level. I’ve played it before, and I explain the winning strategy, walking them through the way to win. 


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