The dream began happily, at the Renaissance Festival with my dance troupe, back at camp on the Knoll. We were sitting around, eating dinner (I believe it was also someone's birthday), chatting and preparing for bed. The rest of the evening was uneventful.
However, early next morning, my father took me away from camp to a large meadow, put a gun in my hands and taught me to shoot. He said I would need this skill very soon. I just nodded, a bit confused, and we walked back to camp. The rest of the day passed in a blur.
When the night came, I found myself again with the gun, running through the hills with my family and my surviving campmates, trying to escape what I could only guess were zombies. We crested a rise, looked and listened for pursuers, sensed none, and decided to sit down and make this our new camp. I, however, heard a small rustling in the bushes and crept over to investigate. As I neared the shivering bush, a black form, shimmering red, leaped out at me and straight for my throat. I stabbed it with the pen in my hand (which was somehow a poisonous weapon) until it went limp. I was unscathed, but as I set the body on the ground, what I saw came as more of a shock than contracting the zombie virus. I had killed my cat.