You leap over seats, zigging and zagging across rows and aisles, hurdling over the dismembered and disemboweled bodies filling the stands. Leaping from the second row, you aim for the only spot atop the visitors dugout that isn’t drenched in pools of blood. You manage to hit a dry spot, and after a quick stumble you bound toward the safety of the green grass. As you soar above the dugout a powerful hand reaches up and grabs you by the ankle. You land with a sickening thud on the hard, packed dirt. Adrenaline flowing through your veins, you bounce quickly to your feet. A freshly disembodied hand is still clutched tightly to your ankle. A quick flick of your foot sends the slightly green hand flying toward the infield - fingers still blindly reaching for its lost prize. As an angry, one-handed, what-used-to-be-Tom Brunansky lumbers your way, you realize that the field may not be the safest place. There is nowhere to hide, and more of the zombie Red Sox slowly amble from the dugout in your direction.