You know what? That waiter can take care of himself. You ditch your weirdly aggressive and possibly drunk date, handing a twenty-dollar bill to the greeter on the way out to cover the appetizers.
As you walk toward your car, you smell something all too familiar. At first you think your date followed you out of the restaurant, but you look around and see a middle-aged woman stumbling toward you, grunting and staring blankly just like your date did. What is this, an epidemic? You walk faster, and get inside your car just as the woman reaches you. You feel a bump, and glance in your mirror to see some guy climbing on your trunk. A third person, with a gaping head wound that makes gender difficult to determine, presses two bloody hands against your car window.
“Braaaaaaiins,” it moans.
The realization hits you like a freight train. Zombie invasion! This, in turn, makes you feel a little better about abandoning your date and a lot worse about not helping the waiter. You lock the doors, turn the key in the ignition, and step on the gas, feeling ill-equipped to deal with a situation like this. Your friend Ernie might know what to do—he’s always going on about the paranormal and secret government plots and so forth. On second thought, Ernie might not be the most stable person to turn to in a crisis.
If you decide to get Ernie’s advice on what is turning into a really weird day, turn to page 40.
If you decide you’re better off driving toward some actual authority, like the police, turn to page 86.