Last night's dream

I'm in an enormous factory/warehouse with Michael Ironside and a band of survivors who are barricaded in against attack from a horde of homicidal zombies and huge prehistoric beasts. At one point I'm wearing nothing but the combat harness which holds the shells for my sawed-off shotgun. I'm feeling a little vulnerable with my choice of weapons and clothing until I find some shorts and a t-shirt in a pile next to the door. Just as I begin slipping on a pair of shoes we hear a tremendous crashing on the flimsy corrugated steel blocking one entry (who built these freakin' defenses, I wonder). Ironside leaps to his feet and gives me the customary Hollywood tough-guy "fist pump in the air" and points his M-16 at the noise. Then I wake up.

I need to switch to Budweiser if this is what expensive Belgian ales do to me.