The other night, I had enough zombie dreams to even make Scott Edelman’s head spin.

The series started with me hanging out in an old-fashioned shop. I was standing near the ancient cash register when the fellow who worked there — tall, dark hair tightly curled, wearing a cap and other rather turn-of-the-20th-century-style clothing — suddenly started making fearful noises. He had been in a heated discussion with one of the customers, who then lurched at him awkwardly. The fellow’s face turned pale and he seemed to have some kind of epiphany that made him take off toward the big windows overlooking the street. I ran after him to stop him. He dove out through the windows, shattering the glass as he landed three stories below on the snow-dusted street.

As he lie broken in the road, no less than three different vehicles hit him, tearing up his legs until the blood soaked the snow, which was littered with chunks of flesh.

Ignoring the chaos that was breaking out in the store, I went outside. Emergency personnel were already arriving. That’s when I spotted a female zombie wearing nothing more than a hospital gown, her head caked with some kind of grit. She lumbered toward the injured man. I had to do something. I couldn’t let her interfere with his rescue. I waved my arms at her, getting her attention, and then led her on a merry chase. She moved more quickly than “traditional” zombies but wasn’t fast enough to actually catch me, more due to lack of coordination than anything. We wove back and forth through the snow in the small town park next to the building with the shop.

In the last zombie dream, I was travelling through an underground tunnel with a team of zombie hunters, mostly men wearing shabby brown overcoats carrying flashlights and shotguns.

Actually, I lie. I don’t remember the third dream. I do remember the flashlights and shotguns. Or maybe just the coats. But there were definitely zombies.