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Started off normal enough. Me. My family. My little second- rate Midwest wooded neighborhood. Everything was in it's proper place (except for a mid-sized rec. center that inexplicably dropped itself right next to my house, but that's not important.)
I guess it was around November, seeing as there was a giant cornucopia shoved forlornly between two orange candles on the dining room table.
There was no dialog involved, but we apparently were not making the grueling five hour trip to Nowhereland, Indiana, to visit our cousins for Thanksgiving. No, instead, we were going to the unnecessary rec. center to celebrate with our whole neighborhood.
My parents and their ideas.

Later on, after the party that never occurred in my dream but was implied that it still happened, I was on the computer doing something that was unimportant when this yellowed old man in tattered clothes hobbled down the street to our house. Kathleen- my naive, whiny eight year old sister- ran outside to... do something. She didn't say a word. Just ran outside.
She walked unsuspectingly towards the zombie grandpa, when my dad jumped in with a chainsaw that, regretfully, never existed in the waking world.
I didn't see anything, but then Kathleen and my mom never showed up again, so my dad, my older sister Kirsten, and I became full-fledged zombie hunters. Throughout the dream, we'd somehow acquired a chainsaw, and AK-47, and something else.
I think it was a screwdriver.
So basically, I had at least twenty zombie kills under my belt at age thirteen.
Zombie Kills of the Week? No, but impressive nonetheless.

This is what I get for watching Zombieland four times over the span of two months.
Sad, isn't it?