Bars and then some.

No, I don't mean pubs or clubs where you feel safe amongst the likes. I'm talking about bars, dark bars with forgottens in the back like those Great War lost.
So, bring out the dead.
The woman behind the bar is tough as nails. Like she's Shotgun Maud and pumps that fucker with one hand and counts the bodies with a finger writing in the air on the other.
Avoid eye contact.
Unless you think you can talk your way out of being boot stomped, scalped, robbed, stabbed six hundred times. Yeah, they're watching you, staring.
Don't return the gesture.
Fight it if you have to. Don't smile. Keep your head down, sure. Or watch one of the TVs, but even then, don't root for anything or anyone. You'd be better off moving to the back with the forgottens? Wrong again. They're the worst. You'll slowly melt. You'll be filled with a false safety net because it's dark and quiet.
They're standing behind you.
Pretend to ignore them but have amazing eyes in the back of your head. They're out for your brains. Pale as ghosts and wearing their work cloths from twenty years past. Terrible wrinkles and white iris'. Tongues out. Pawing at the air. All this while sitting there, lost in the trenches.
Watch for bayonets.
Shotgun Maud appears beside you with your unordered beer. That's the way it goes. The undead here move you to the light, where the VLT's seem to be the only things ignoring you. They all seem to want to talk. Rubbing their hands together. Finishing the drinks.
Be prepared to bolt.
A fight breaks out next to you. It's over drugs and a girl and words that crash landed on the recipient. The fight spills onto your table. Someones getting boot stomped, punched over and over next to you. Maud gets ready. The rest of the bar is a waiting frenzy.
Your eyes will burn.
Three flashes and Maud is drawing a six in the air with that hand. A man in the corner is stuffing cigarette butts in his pockets. The great war ones stir. Out come the bayonettes. Out come the dead.