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 accident 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 boring time to kill. What do you want to do?

You’re still at the boring desk of your boring job. What do you want to do?

You spend some time doing work, entering business tricks into your computer and making good numbers.

From outside, you hear the blaring sound of many police sirens.

Data gets computed and you input the info. This is all very good for your company.

A military helicopter flies by your window. It looked like a few people were clinging to the outside of it.

The stockholders are going to nod their heads when they learn about what you’re doing. They will say, “Great, that is some business.”

There seems to be some kind of commotion down the hall. A man utters an anguished scream that suddenly gets cut off.

You are churning piles of profit. Dividends are blasting nonstop.

A shrieking woman covered in bloody bite marks runs past your desk.

Your productivity gets interrupted by Brad from IT, who lurches into your cubicle with arms outstretched. He begins slowly 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 fix your computer, he bites off your stomach. Now, all your guts are hanging out like this. Everyone will be able to see your intestines, which is really embarrassing, and also you die.

On the bright side, you’ve learned that you could not survive a zombie apocalypse. So at least you know that now.

“Have you heard about this zombie thing that’s happening?” says Raul.

“Zombies are everywhere all of a sudden,” explains Raul. “They’re doing standard zombie things, like eating people and being disruptive.”

“Yeah,” says Raul.

“Probably,” agrees Raul.

“I’d love to come with you, but I’m really swamped with work,” 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 sounds 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 fire marshal inside, and he moves to block the entrance.

“You can’t come in here!” he shouts at you. “An emergency is going on. 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, imagine a fire started. You’d be stuck in the elevator with the fire. Now, imagine the fire started burning 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 put me in a real tight spot,” says the fire marshal. “Fine, you can use the elevator, but make it quick.” He steps aside and lets you enter.

You die in an elevator fire 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.”

“Zombies are occurring now,” says Raul. “Looks like society is busted.”

You log into your favorite place to not achieve work, 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 just shows 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, the problem we expected.”

“A zombie is a variety of dead cannibal, and it’s legal to murder them,” continues the president. “In fact, it’s legal to do everything, because laws don’t exist anymore! Go nuts in the street and loot and kill all you want. This is a zombie apocalypse, so make 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 silently stares at the camera.

Hundreds of zombies roam the streets below your office building. You watch as they swarm over a police 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 would be suicide, and not the good kind of suicide like in Romeo And Juliet. You’ll have to find some other way of getting past them.

You bravely charge 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 see. It’s extremely humiliating 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, revealing your intestines for all the world to see. It’s extremely humiliating because everyone will be able to see what’s going on inside your ass. Worst of all, it kills you.

A crowd of your surviving coworkers are holding a party in the break 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 probably die no matter what we do. So, why not go out with a huge end of the world party? We’re having a blast boozing and sexually harassing each other, which is now okay at the office because laws don’t exist anymore. Care to join us?”

“Wonderful,” says your boss. “Pour yourself a glass, and please feel free to sexually harass me. It’s totally fine.”

“Fantastic,” he says. “Now I’m going to sexually harass you. Here goes. Get ready. I am thinking about sex right now. Okay, that was it.”

You spend your remaining minutes mingling with coworkers and sexually harassing each other. Before the wine runs out, the room is swarmed by zombies, and all the revelers, including you, suffer excruciating deaths. You may not have survived the zombie apocalypse, but you certainly 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 sound of your rich, melodious voice and play air guitar during the chorus. You’re in the middle of rocking when a zombie crawls out of a stall 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 making whooshing and zooming noises. The undead creature is helplessly dragged behind you, and his forehead makes squeaky noises from rubbing across the floor.

You shove 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 clothing and release a blast of urine all over the zombie, laughing 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 intestines fall out of the hole onto the floor 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 bodies unleash their secret shame.

There is a strange shuffling sound coming from one of the stalls.

You look in a stall and discover a female kickboxer training inside. She’s busy practicing her moves, shadowboxing and performing roundhouse kicks at the air.

She stops when she notices you. “Hey, what’s up? I’m Amanda from marketing. My job is marketing, but my real passion is kickboxing. I spend every workday in this bathroom training for a zombie apocalypse in hopes that it will one day happen and I’ll get to put my incredible kickboxing skills to use. Unfortunately, zombies are not happening, and maybe 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 path with my punching skills. Want to leave the building with me?”

“Okay, take your time,” says Amanda. “Just remember to come back to the women’s bathroom when you want to leave the building. I’m your only way out.”

“Also, I have sustained many concussions from my kickboxing hobby and suffered serious brain damage, so I won’t remember that we talked 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 turns 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 remember, and I need to know that for making 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 keep 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 onI’ll stay and have a great time fighting these zombies.”

While Amanda keeps the zombies busy, you’ll be able to slip past and reach the stairs.

Zombies are shambling all around the street, being rude and having gross faces. Avoiding horrific death will be a delightful challenge. If you run, you can slip through them and go wherever you want in the city.

You head downtown, where humanity constructed very tall buildings in order to brag that this is a city and it’s going well. All the usual business has come to a halt because zombies are eating everyone.

You head to the harbor, a large puddle where boats sleep. The waterfront is still very beautiful other than the occasional dismembered corpse on the ground.

You head to the suburbs, a big tangle of fields and highways. This was once a nice place to live, but now it’s a nice place to get eaten by a zombie.

The mall is full of undead monsters and amazing bargains. You could get in some solid looting if you wanted.

Inside the electronics shop you find a brand-new, cutting-edge laptop, ideal for both work and gaming. Normally, it would retail for well over $2,000, but due to the zombie apocalypse you can steal it for free. The only downside is that it’s currently being used by a zombie, and she seems pretty possessive of it. When you enter the store, she hisses at you and clutches the laptop to her chest.

You grab the zombie’s laptop, and she grabs into your torso and rips out all your organs, including your intestine, which dangles out of your stomach for everyone to see. You’ve never been this embarrassed in your life, and also you die. On the bright side, free laptop.

“Hello, and welcome to the Frozen Yogurt Hut!” says the employee behind the counter. “Unfortunately, the machine that squirts out the yogurt stopped working when society went away. We are closed indefinitely until zombies stop happening.”

“I’m afraid this isn’t real frozen yogurt, but a plaster model that I can use to show people what frozen yogurt looks like. It’s glued to my hand, and I will carry it until I die.”

Within the gun store awaits The Gunsmith. He smiles knowingly as you pass the threshold of his shop.

“A gun is a small metal murderer,” says The Gunsmith.

“There is but one gun in all the world,” he says. “I forged it long ago in case humanity ever needed a weapon to stop zombies. However, the gun is not here anymore. It was hidden far away in a safe place so that it may only be found by one who is worthy of shooting a zombie right in the head, then posing with the body so their friends can take photos of how badass they are. Find the gun! Restore society!”

“Great, go do that,” he says. “Bye.”

“I have nothing else to say. You can leave now.”

“Please leave.”


Smart thinking. If a prison is good at holding people in, maybe it’s also good at holding zombies out. You’ve always wanted to live in a prison, and now maybe you’ll get to.

The prison is completely empty other than a single criminal who leans against the wall smoking one of his crime cigarettes.

“Hey, bud,” says the criminal, “I’m a dangerous gang. Now that society is over, the rampaging gang of me is going full speed ahead on lawbreaking.”

“Yeah, I’m the MacClaren Boys, the most ruthless band of crooks the world has ever seen.”

“Hm, I don’t know,” says the MacClaren Boys. “I’m very selective about who gets to join me. You’ll have to prove yourself.”

He thinks for a moment.

“Tell you what. There’s a legendary weapon called a gun. If you bring it to me, you can be our second member, and we’ll use the gun to crime-spree like maniacs.”

“Hey, this is MacClaren Boys turf! A Hillside Hombre can’t come here,” says the criminal. “I’m going to have to stab you.”

The MacClaren Boys stab you, and you die. However, he’s courteous enough to stab you in the neck so your intestines stay safely hidden inside your stomach. Nobody will see the shameful tubes in your ass and laugh at you. It’s a huge relief, and honestly, not a bad way to go.

You visit the city planetarium, a large egg where people pretend to see space. Maybe the space scientists who live here can explain why zombies are happening.

Inside the building is a space scientist who is busy staring through a telescope right at the Sun. “Yes, this is terrible for my eyes,” she mutters to herself.

“Oh, hi there,” says the space scientist. “I didn’t notice you walk in. I was busy looking at my favorite thing, outer space.”

“Yes, I have a drawing of that in my pocket,” she says. “This is what Saturn would look like as a ghost.”

“Zombies are caused by solar flares,” explains the space scientist. “A solar flare is a hot gust the Sun makes when it gets mad. A lot of people think viruses cause zombies, which is untrue. All zombies are created by solar flares.”

She gestures at her telescope. “I was just looking at the Sun right now, and it’s blasting flares nonstop. Someone has seriously pissed off the Sun, and it’s not going to quit until we’re all zombies or dead.”

“I don’t know why the Sun became enraged,” she says. “Whatever we did to anger it happened on Earth, and I only look at space.”

“If you find out what we did to piss off the Sun, maybe you can stop the zombie apocalypse, if that’s what you want to do.”

You find a seaworthy yacht moored to the pier. Perhaps you can use it to escape the city.

There are several sunbathers on the boat relaxing and catching rays.

“Society being destroyed is great,” one of them says. “Now that our jobs don’t exist, we can spend all day working on our tans!”

“Sure, why not?” says a sunbather. “We don’t care where the boat is, as long as we can keep sitting in these sweet scorching-hot sunbeams.”

You navigate the yacht out of the city into deep ocean waters. There isn’t a zombie around for miles.

“Sorry, we have some bad news,” says a sunbather. “All of us sunbathers are turning into zombies.”

“Unfortunately, yes, we are about to become zombies,” says a sunbather. “We are going to stop talking now, because zombies cannot speak.”

The undead sunbathers grab onto your flesh with their attractive tan arms and rip out the shameful tubes of your gastrointestinal tract. All your embarrassing intestines flop onto the deck of the ship where the sexy cannibal sunbathers can see them. Your dignity will never recover from this.

Hundreds of soldiers mill about the army base, training to fight the zombie infestation. They don’t seem to have any weapons, which doesn’t bode well for them.

A general angrily marches over to you. “I’m General War. What are you doing here? We can’t have civilians lollygagging around during a zombie emergency! I have a gun!”

“You’re right, I don’t have a gun,” admits General War. “I was lying.”

“It’s a classified secret that the army has no weapons and is completely helpless,” the general adds. “I would love a gun because it would let me commit the blessing of murder on zombies.”

“Your country would be eternally grateful,” says General War. “If you bring us a gun, we soldiers can kill all the zombies and fix society.”

“Just keep in mind that other people want a gun too, especially those untrustworthy doctors over at the hospital,” the general sneers in disdain. “Don’t give the gun to anyone but the army! Only we know how to use it best.”

“Those misguided physician fools think that zombies can be cured,” says General War. “Well, I have a cure for zombies and it’s called a bullet. Fired from a gun.”

“I don’t really mean that bullets can cure zombies,” explains the general. “It wouldn’t cure them; it would just kill them. I was poetically describing how the gun would get rid of our zombie problem by exterminating them.”

“Thank you, citizen.” General War salutes you. “I am looking forward to a gun!”

On your way out of the base, you pass by a shed. You can hear the sound of a woman weeping on the other side of the building.

“No, I’m not a zombie,” says the woman as she pauses from her crying.

You find a woman behind the shed.

“Greetings, stranger, I am General War’s daughter,” says the Daughter of War. “I was crying because I am sad about two things.”

“The first thing I’m sad about is that I’m in love with the Son of Medicine, who lives at the hospital with the other doctors,” says the Daughter of War. “We want to get married, but my father disapproves of our union.”

“The second thing I am sad about is that I fear my father’s plan of shooting all the zombies will not work. There are just too many zombies to shoot. The doctors want to cure all the zombies, but I think their plan will fail also. There are too many zombies to cure.”

“We should kill half the zombies and cure the other half,” she says. “We think that plan would work pretty well. But we’ll need a gun to pull it off.”

“If you find a gun, please bring it to the church. The Son of Medicine and I will be waiting for you there.”

You venture into the sewer, the shameful intestines of the city. Who knows what important secrets await inside these tubes of garbage water.

It looks like there’s something up ahead.

You discover a hidden bunker in the sewer loaded with enough canned goods to last for years. A survivalist sits there amidst his piles of apocalypse supplies.

“Welcome, Gun Finder. I’ve been expecting you,” says the survivalist.

“Yes, long ago this was foretold by a blog I read,” he explains. “The blog predicted that zombies would occur and that someone would find a gun that could stop them. You are the Gun Finder I read about.”

“The location of the gun is for the Gun Finder to find out,” says the survivalist. “All I can tell you is that the gun is locked away and you need a passcode to obtain it.”

“Remember this passcode: 8443. It kind of looks like the word ‘BOOM,’ which is the catchphrase of the gun.”

“Best of luck, Gun Finder! Find the gun and restore society, or leave it in shambles if you prefer this glamorous zombie chaos. It’s up to you.”

You decide to lie low at your house for a while. If you can hang out at home relaxing, then this zombie apocalypse will be just like a nice vacation.

This is your house, the thing you got from society in exchange for doing your boring job. What do you want to do here?

This gun safe was in your house since before you moved in, but you’ve never figured out the combination to open it. Too bad, because a gun would be pretty useful during a zombie occasion like this one.

It’s a four-digit combination lock. The gun safe won’t open without the correct code. You enter the first number:

You enter the second number:

You enter the third number:

You enter the fourth number:

You enter the second number:

You enter the third number:

You enter the fourth number:

You enter the fourth number. The lock clicks open.

You enter the fourth number. That must have been the wrong code, because the safe stays locked.

If you want to get the wonderful gun inside this safe, you’ll have to find the correct code. Surely, someone in the city must know it.

President Obama is on your computer screen. He doesn’t say anything.

“We’re all fine! We love you,” says your family.

The hospital must be getting a lot of business from the zombie apocalypse. Dozens of cars and ambulances are crashed outside, and trails of blood lead in and out of the building.

The emergency room is a chaotic madhouse filled with doctors and bandaged zombies. The zombies aren’t being cooperative, though. The doctors are taking heavy casualties as they apply gauze and splints to the ravenous monsters.

“Hello, I am Doctor Medicine,” says a tall, handsome doctor. “This is my hospital. Are you a zombie in need of medical attention?”

“You’ll have to wait your turn,” says Doctor Medicine. “We’re a bit short-staffed at the moment because zombies keep eating us.” He ushers you into a waiting room that’s filled with zombies.

The zombies aren’t fooled for a second, and they immediately rip open your torso. All your humiliating organs are in plain view, including the most shameful organ of all, the intestine. Also, you die.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to leave,” says Doctor Medicine. “Unless you can help us cure the zombies, you’ll just get in the way.”

“No, we can’t cure zombies,” admits Doctor Medicine. “That’s why we’re putting bandages on them. Whenever doctors can’t cure a disease, we just pile on bandages instead. It’s the next best thing.”

“The only thing that could possibly cure zombies is a gun. According to legend, if you melt down a gun and put it in a vaccine, the mystical properties of the gunmetal can cure any ailment.”

“That would be very helpful,” says Doctor Medicine. “A gun is a wonderful miracle that could save countless lives.”

“But whatever you do, if you find a gun, don’t give it to the army. They’d only use it to shoot bullets, which is not the purpose of guns at all.”

On your way out of the hospital, you hear the sound of a man crying inside a supply closet.

Inside the closet you find a young doctor weeping.

“Hello, I’m Doctor Medicine’s son,” says the Son of Medicine. “I am hiding here so I can cry.”

“Crying is my favorite hobby because I’m so sad,” says the Son of Medicine. “I’m in love with the Daughter of War, but our fathers won’t let us be together because they hate each other. It is a classic situation.”

He bursts into tears again and falls to the floor in a pathetic heap. You can’t get anything else out of him.

You can hear hymns being sung in the church. It sounds like it’s packed with believers.

Inside the church, a priest is giving a sermon to a packed audience.

“Today’s the apocalypse, and it’s our fault zombies are happening ” says the priest. “Exactly one thousand years ago, the Sun traveled to Earth and offered to keep us warm and lit, but warned us never to exploit it for electricity. Humanity promised not to do that, because we’re a bunch of rotten liars. That’s the gist of my religion. Anyway, we’re all going to die soon and go to Heaven, and I couldn’t be more thrilled.”

“Now, let us atone by saying ‘Sorry about sinning’ ten billion times.”

“Sorry about sinning,” says the priest.

The solar power plant opened up the day before the zombie apocalypse started, promising to make society clean and refreshing for the planet. In a huge eco-win, the builders were able to recycle an old cemetery by building the solar panels on top of all the graves.

At the moment, the gate to go inside is padlocked shut. Someone thoughtfully put up a zombie warning sign next to it. It’s too dangerous to go in here alone.

At long last, you have obtained the fabled gun. When you pick it up, an automated message starts playing.







You deliver the gun to the jail and gift it to a dangerous criminal, and in gratitude he tattoos lots of skulls and dragons with breasts all over your body.

“Those are gang tattoos,” he explains. “You are now in my dangerous gang, the MacClaren Boys. Now that we have a gun, we can break into banks and shoot all the money.”

You survived the zombie apocalypse by joining a roaming gang of criminals! The rest of your life is spent breaking into bank vaults and shooting money into green dust. Zombies keep happening forever and society stays permanently broken, which is just the way you like it.

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You deliver the gun to the army, and General War is so grateful that he immediately promotes you to Lieutenant Badass, which is the army’s second-highest rank.

“Now that we have a gun, we can finally commit good murder on zombies,” says the general. “Why don’t you do the honors?”

You survived the zombie apocalypse by joining the army! You spend the rest of your life murdering zombies, but you can never kill enough of them to fix society. On the bright side, shooting zombies is extremely fun, and you get to do it forever.

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You deliver the gun to the hospital, and Doctor Medicine is so grateful that he gives you an honorary medical degree and white coat.

“You are now one of us doctors,” he says. “Let me melt this gun down into a zombie vaccine and we’ll end this apocalypse immediately!”

You survived the zombie apocalypse by becoming a doctor! The cure works perfectly, and you revive thousands of zombies back into people. But no matter how many you heal, there are always more zombies than you can keep up with. Society stays destroyed forever.

However, that’s fine. As a doctor, you have immense professional satisfaction and the respect of your peers, and the zombie apocalypse couldn’t be more enjoyable for you.

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You find the Daughter of War and the Son of Medicine waiting at the church. They are in the middle of getting secretly married.

“Hold on, we’re almost done getting secretly married,” says the Daughter of War.

“Okay, we’re married now. We have united the rival clans of soldiers and doctors,” says the Son of Medicine.

“Thanks to your gun, we can finally fix society once and for all by killing half the zombies and curing the other half. But to do that, we need to know what caused zombies to happen. Can you tell us what made zombies?”

“No, that’s wrong,” says the Daughter of War. “And in the time you took to say the wrong thing, the Son of Medicine and I fell out of love and got a divorce.”

“You’ll have to take the gun somewhere else, because we won’t work with each other anymore.”

“Then we have no time to waste! We must appease the Sun. Go to the solar power plant and destroy it,” says the Daughter of War.

“We’ll guard you from zombies while you shoot those accursed panels,” says the Son of Medicine.

The zombies are very upset that you’re destroying the solar power plant. Millions of them swarm at you from all directions. It looks like every zombie in the city is trying to stop you.

When the last solar panel was destroyed, half the zombies dropped dead and the other half turned back into humans. Society was completely fixed, so you headed back to work.

“Hey,” says Raul.

You survived the zombie apocalypse by stopping the zombie apocalypse! The rest of your life is spent being bored and safe in a functional society. Sometimes you miss having crowds of undead cannibals constantly attacking you, but on the whole you’re pretty happy. Congratulations!

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