I was in the bottom floor of a high-security building. Maybe a mall, maybe some kind of Le Corbusieresque arcology. But the cyborg zombies had gotten in and infected the staff. Me and the rest of the party with the Eleventh Doctor were immune, but the cyborg zombies had us outnumbered.
It should be noted that these were very intelligent for zombies; they could talk just fine and didn’t have parts rotting off or anything. But their flesh had gone grey, and they had bits of metal festooning and controlling them. Basically the Borg I guess? Except all kind of sneeringly malign. And with a wider variety of clothes.
A little earlier, I’d walked right into this with another woman. Not like we really had a choice; we were surrounded and herded in to where the other uninfected people were. Nobody told us where to go once we were in, so we kept walking down the wide corridor, hoping to make it to a corner and vanish. Walking so as not to attract attention was excruciatingly tense, but we made it – and there was the stairs AND an elevator! The other woman hopped into the elevator, but I was too slow. Then there were a couple scenes of her pushing the highest button available (29 I think, though I knew the building was MUCH higher – I guess there was a sky lobby up there or something), and then it being explained by the Doctor that sadly she only had papers authorizing her to go up to floor 4. This would result in her being reconstituted from her DNA records when she got to her destination floor, and sadly, the records of her had her infected with the cyborg zombie disease. Good thing for me I was too slow to catch the elevator, I guess!
I’m not sure why I didn’t take the stairs. I guess the cyborg zombies caught me, and politely escorted me over to where the Doctor was being kept.
When the fat male cyborg zombie who was keeping me down on the floor started leching on me, I got pissed. Cyborg zombies, sure, I could handle that, but forced cyborg zombie sex? NO WAY. So I turned to the female cyborg zombie in a fake nurse’s outfit (she’d been working at a theatre whose uniforms had that vibe) and pulled out a weapon I didn’t know I had on me. It was a small blade on an extending pole, and it slid unerringly into her mouth, buzzsawing it’s way through the metal flaps at the back, and into her brain. Sawblade mandibles sprouted from the sides of her mouth as I did this, but my weapon was too fast – she was dead before she could get them into my hands.
The male cyborg zombie looked at me sadly, and gouged the tops of my feet open with his own razor-sized vibrating blades. It didn’t hurt. I suspect it would have soon. But then I woke up with my ankles crossed and slightly complaining about this.