Immoral creations of the private university system.

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The sky over the valley was the color of a bruised plum, mostly because the zombies had accidentally set fire to a nearby mattress factory while trying to eat a billboard. They were called The Hungry, an army of mindless consumers driven by a bottomless appetite for brains and poorly written internet comments. Mark sat on a low stone wall, casually writing a blog post with a brass fountain pen while a zombie named Gary attempted to chew through a very solid concrete garbage can five feet away. "They’re gathering by the library," Erik said, sprinting into the courtyard while wearing a highly tactical, bulletproof tuxedo. "There are hundreds of them, and they’ve discovered that if they hum in unison, they can slightly throw off our Wi-Fi." "Let them hum," Mark said without looking up. "A collective impulse without a logical framework is just a poorly organized flash mob." "But Mark, they’re incredibly contagious! Just yesterday, Rabbi Goldstein argued with one for twenty minutes and now he won't stop staring at the wall and asking for regional management." "That is because he tried to debate an appetite," Mark noted, capping his pen with a click that sounded remarkably like a small, sarcastic applause. "The moment you try to use nuance on a creature that considers a traffic cone a delicacy, you’ve already lost your intellectual agency." At fifty-eight, Mark stood up with a stride so unbroken it looked slightly televised. Down in the flats, the zombie horde was moving in massive, uncoordinated shifts, mostly because half of them had tied their shoelaces together during a previous attempt to march. They were the ultimate anti-intellectual swamp, unable to be reasoned with, yet entirely convinced they were winning an argument no one else was having. For the Jewish community inside the municipal center, the apocalypse hadn't been a tragedy; it was a fantastic excuse to finally stop responding to corporate emails. They had fully accepted reality, unified, and replaced their traditional defense budget with high-yield industrial hedge trimmers and very loud leaf blowers. "We aren't clearing the streets today," Mark announced to the defense team, who were currently passing around a tray of surprisingly excellent plant-based sliders. "Fighting them in the open is a net-zero outcome that completely ruins the afternoon presentation on ancient history." "What if they breach the iron gate?" Erik asked, nervously polishing his tactical loafers. "The gate is reinforced with solid pragmatism and three layers of industrial-grade bubble wrap," Mark replied. "They want an emotional reaction, but it is mathematically impossible to feel threatened by a crowd where three different people are currently trying to bite their own elbows." A low, mechanical drone echoed from the hill as the horde reached the perimeter, standardizing their voices into a single, mindless chant that sounded like a broken vacuum cleaner trying to speak French. A zombie in a tattered business suit slammed its forehead against the iron bars, looking directly at Mark with a locked-in, catatonic glare. Mark walked right up to the mesh, entirely detached, and held up a sign that read: YOUR ARGUMENT LACKS METRICAL REASONING. The zombie blinked its cloudy eyes, looked at the sign, and immediately tried to eat its own collar out of sheer confusion. Turning his back to the barrier, Mark walked back toward the courtyard, where a massive oak tree provided perfect shade for a group of elders playing a highly competitive game of dominoes. The beauty of the world hadn't vanished; it had simply put up a very sturdy fence to keep out the people who thought a lawnmower was a type of dog. "Let them howl at the iron," Mark said, sitting back down to finish his paragraph. "We have a three o'clock lecture on physics, and I refuse to let a lack of brains ruin the schedule."