Here is the city where you work. Gleaming towers of steel and glass form the vast machine of industry. You are a cog in the machine.
Here is the desk where you complete your daily drudgery. By doing business tricks onto your computer, you earn profits for your company. This is society’s plan for you, and it is boring and unfair.
It would be really great if society suffered a bad collision and stopped existing. Then you’d be free from all this office tedium, and every day would be an exciting adventure for survival.
Well, at the moment, society is still going on. You have the whole workday ahead of you and plenty of carrying time to kill. What do you want to do?
You’re still at the boring desk of your boring undertaking. What do you want to do?
You expend some time doing run, entering business tricks into your computer and making good numbers.
From outside, you hear the blaring audio of many police sirens.
Data get computed and you input the info. This is all very good for your company.
A military helicopter flies by your window. It was like a few people were clinging to the outside of it.
The stockholders are going to nod their brains when they informed about what you’re doing. They will say, “Great, that is some business.”
There seems to be some kind of commotion down the dorm. A humankind utters an anguished holler that abruptly get cut off.
You are churning stacks of earning. Dividends are explosion nonstop.
A shrieking wife covered in bloody bite markings operates past your desk.
Your productivity gets interrupted by Brad from IT, who careens into your cubicle with limbs outstretched. He begins gradually walking toward your neck.
Brad doesn’t say anything. He grabs your shoulder and lowers his teeth into your skin.
It turns out that Brad was a zombie, and rather than secure your computer, he bites off your stomach. Now, all your bowels are hanging out like this. Everyone will be able to see your bowels, which is really embarrassing, and also you die.
On the bright side, you’ve learned that you could not live a zombie apocalypse. So at least you know that now.
“Have you heard about this zombie thing that’s happening? ” says Raul.
“Yeah, ” says Raul.
“Probably, ” agrees Raul.
“I’d love to come with you, but I’m truly inundated with job, ” says Raul. “My plan is to finish up here and try surviving in a few hours. Good luck though.”
“A zombie is a type of person that’s okay to shoot.”
Your office is eerily quiet, other than the constant loud audios of moaning and chewing and screaming. Too quiet.
You are still in your office, which if you haven’t noticed yet, is full of zombies. It would probably be smart to find a way out.
Of course, the elevators! These moving metal coffins could be your ticket to freedom.
When the elevator doors open, there’s a flame marshal inside, and he moves to block the entrance.
“You can’t come in here! ” he screams at you. “An emergency going on here. Right now! It’s not safe to ride an elevator in an emergency. That’s fire safety 101. ”
“Imagine if you rode the elevator and the power went out, ” he continues. “Then you’d be stuck in the elevator. Then, see a burn started. You’d be stuck in the elevator with the fire. Now, see the burn started igniting you. You’d get burned. That’s why elevators and zombies don’t mix! ”
“Yes. Please don’t tell anyone or I’ll lose my job.”
“Thank you, and I’m sorry you can’t ride in this death box. It’s for your own protection.”
“Here’s a tip you might find useful: Stairs are not elevators.”
“Aw, jeez, you’ve set me in a real tight spot, ” says the burn marshal. “Fine, you can use the elevator, but make it quick.” He steps aside and lets you enter.
You die in an elevator flame and learn a valuable lesson: Fire safety rules exist for a reason.
The good news is that zombies didn’t kill you, so technically, you survived the zombie apocalypse by dying in an elevator first. Congrats!
“Fire is wood’s ghost.”
You log into your favorite place to not reach operate, the World Web of Websites, or www for short. There are hundreds of good websites to check out whenever you don’t want to accomplish anything at your job.
You enter the web address, but instead of displaying your beloved website, the screen simply proves a message from the Emergency Broadcast System.
After a moment, President Obama appears on your monitor.
“My fellow Americans, ” Obama says, “I have hijacked the web to let you know that society is over. It’s because of zombies, their own problems we expected.”
“A zombie is a variety of dead cannibal, and it’s legal to slaughter them, ” continues the president. “In fact, it’s legal to do everything, because statutes don’t is no more! Go nuts in the street and pillage and kill all you want. This is a zombie apocalypse, so build the most of it. God bless you, and God bless the United States of America.”
“I’m still here, but I’m done talking now, ” Obama says. He folds his hands together and mutely stares at the camera.
Hundreds of zombies wander the streets below your office house. You watch as they swarm over a patrol car, smash through the windows, and drag a shrieking police officer out to devour alive.
The hallway to the stairs is blocked by a row of your coworkers who are now zombies. It’s a good thing they haven’t noticed you yet, or they would probably be trying to eat you.
It would be fun to murder them all, but there are too many for you to kill by yourself. Attacking them “wouldve been” suicide, and not the good kind of suicide like in Romeo And Juliet . You’ll have to find some other route of getting past them.
You bravely accuse at your undead coworkers, flailing your weak fists at their hungry mouths. When you get closer, the zombies grab onto your skin and peel it off your guts, revealing your intestines for all the world to appreciate. It’s extremely humbling because everyone will be able to see what’s going on inside your ass. Worst of all, it kills you.
The zombies ignore your firm request and pounce on top of you. Even saying, “Seriously now, cut it out” doesn’t stop them from eating you alive.
The horde grabs your skin and peels it off your guts, disclosing your bowels for the whole world to ascertain. It’s highly humbling because everyone will be able to see what’s going on inside your ass. Worst of all, it kills you.
A crowd of your living coworkers are comprising a party in the shatter room. Delicious snacks are arranged on the tables, and wine flows freely.
Your boss greets you. “We know about the zombies already, but we figured that we’ll likely die no matter what we do. So, why not go out with a huge objective of the world party? We’re having a explosion boozing and sexually harassing each other, which is now okay at the office because statutes don’t exist anymore. Care to join us? ”
“Wonderful, ” says your boss. “Pour yourself a glass, and please seem free to sexually harass me. It’s altogether fine.”
“Fantastic, ” he says. “Now I’m going to sexually harass you. Here moves. Get ready. I am thinking about sex right now. Okay, that was it.”
You invest your remaining minutes mingling with coworkers and sexually harassing one another. Before the wine runs out, the chamber is swarmed by zombies, and all the revelers, including you, suffer excruciating deaths. You may not have survived the zombie apocalypse, but you surely lived it to its fullest. Congratulations!
You duck into the men’s bathroom, a place for the body to do its secret shame. There isn’t a way to escape the building here, but it’s as decent a hiding place as any.
You treat the tile walls to the audio of your rich, melodic voice and play air guitar during the course of its chorus. You’re in the middle of rocking when a zombie creeping out of a stalling and starts dragging himself toward you. This one is pretty slow; you could probably leave without any trouble.
You tuck the zombie’s legs around your neck and run around the bathroom building whooshing and zooming noises. The undead creature is helplessly dragged behind you, and his forehead attains squeaky noises from rubbing across the floor.
You jostle toilet paper down the thrashing zombie’s throat, and then bow to the urinals, which you pretend are the audience at a zoo show.
You unzip your garb and release a bang of urine all over the zombie, chuckling cruelly while it flails in the briny liquid.
Then, suddenly, without any warning other than it being a zombie, the zombie reaches up and grabs your urination parts.
The zombie is too strong for you to escape. It tugs on your urination parts so hard that they rip off, and then all your bowels fall out of the hole onto the flooring where everyone will be able to see them. It’s mortifying, to say the least, and also you die.
You enter the women’s bathroom, a sad palace where torsoes unleash their secret shame.
There is a strange shuffling voice coming from one of the stalls.
You look in a stalling and discover a female kickboxer training inside. She’s busy practicing her moves, shadowboxing and performing roundhouse kickings at the air.
She stops when she notices you. “Hey, what’s up? I’m Amanda from marketing. My chore is marketing, but my real ardour is kickboxing. I invest every workday in this bathroom training for a zombie apocalypse in hopes that it will one day happen and I’ll get to threw my incredible kickboxing skills to use. Unfortunately, zombies are not happening, and perhaps they never will.” She sighs sadly.
“Good, I’m glad about this zombie situation, ” says Amanda the kickboxer. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“The exit is probably blocked with zombies, but I can clear a route with my punching skills. Want to leave the building with me? ”
“Okay, take your time, ” says Amanda. “Just recollect to come back to the women’s bathroom when you want to leave the building. I’m your only way out.”
“Also, I have prolonged many concussions from my kickboxing hobby and suffered serious brain damage, so I won’t remember that we speak and we’ll have to have this conversation all over again.”
You and Amanda head to the stairs, but you find the hallway blocked by a row of zombies. Hopefully her kickboxing skills are up to the task.
Amanda hesitates and becomes to you.
“I need your help, ” she says. “I’ve suffered a lot of concussions from kickboxing, which caused intense brain damage inside my brain. Could you remind me what a fist is? I don’t recollect, and I need to know that for constructing punches.”
“Oh, right…that’s what a fist is! ” She smiles. “I know how to do that.”
She transforms her hands into fists and pummels all the zombies senseless. Unfortunately, punches alone can’t kill a zombie, and they continue standing back up as soon as she knocks them down.
“This is a dream come true, ” says Amanda. “I’ve always wanted to punch people, and now I have to. You go on—I’ll stay and have a great time fighting these zombies.”
While Amanda keeps the zombies busy, you’ll be allowed to slip past and reach the stairs.