Ultimate Guide To Zombie Proofing Your Home (And Staying Alive)
First rule of Zombie-Pound: Don’t stick your hand through the fence. Second rule of Zombie-Pou —My hand! Oh, F*@K! My hand!
Those were the last words of our fearless, then handless and finally headless, leader. He really didn’t have to show us what not to do. We coulda figured it out. We really just needed him to show us how to reload a crossbow, or run a generator or, you know, SURVIVE, but it’s probably best he didn’t get around to it. He couldn’t have been all that smart to begin with. I’m thinking we woulda all ended up figuratively sticking our hands through fences by the end of his tutorials. So probably a good thing the weakest link got taken out first.
Fran, thank whatever counts as a god these days, found a bunch of Ronnie’s survival books. Some of ‘em are pretty bleak. I’m sorry, but I’m not drinking my own urine. I know where I’ve been and what I’ve eaten and I sure don’t want to experience it twice. Anyway, we’ve got plenty of water for now.
Other than the survivalist handbooks written by loners and weirdoes who posed on the back covers wielding ridiculously large weapons, there’s not much reading material. Nor are there any gaming consoles. I have my laptop, and we take turns playing around on it, but I tell people I don’t want them wearing it out by looking at porn all day, so give it back. But hey, with an arsenal to rival Call of Duty, and plenty of targets just lumbering around, we got the next best thing to videogames.
There’s seven of us, or there were seven of us. Six, now that Ronnie got eaten. Three girls, three guys. Not nearly as awesome as it sounds. Two of the girls are a couple, which is great, one of the guys is a late-bloomer and another isn’t into either girls or guys, per se. It’s gotta be lonely being the only furry in the Zombie-Pound. Fran’s available. But after watching her ex get eaten through a fence, well, too soon?
We’ve tried playing fetch with the attack dogs — the poor mutts Ronnie had an out-of-work dentist soup up with friggin’ titanium teeth. Every time we throw a ball or something, the pooches immediately reduce it to powder or mush. Then they whine and look at us all, “What the … ? Did you do that?” How do you explain to a Rottweiler that his weenie of an ex-owner thought it’d be bad-ass to surgically implant metal teeth into their already bad-ass vice-grip mouths? You don’t. You pet ‘em and find a rock for them to play with.
Fran hasn’t been all that impressed with Ronnie’s setup. They used to date back in high school, and I doubt he impressed her much back then either. Sure, it’s secure and probably NOTHING will ever get past that looming concrete wall, but there’re other dangers besides zombies. Boredom’s a bitch. How many times can you sit up in a watchtower and pick off zombies? It was awesome the first thirty times, then boring, then sad.
* * *
You see these zombies coming for you and you can’t help but make up stories for ‘em. Like this guy, the one with brown hair and crooked glasses. He just wants to make a living, or unliving, whatever, and put some brains on the table. He’s got like twenty thousand mouths to feed. Who am I to fault him for that? Oh, yeah, I’m the guy with the crossbow. Twang!
Learning the crossbow took some time. It’s not like in SkyRim. I totally ruled in that game; I totally sucked at the real thing. At first. The how-to manuals don’t prepare you for the experience of shooting at something that used to be human. No, sirree. You get used to it, though, and the zombies are coming here less frequently these past four months since it all began.
Fran used to be a DJ before the dead started rising and eating the living. She was pretty good, too. Her handle was DJ Hya-synth and she reigned over the club scene in Chicago for like five years. Now, she’s the best crack-shot in the Zombie-Pound. When I asked her which she likes better, shooting zombies or mixing Lady Gaga for tweaked-out tweens, she tells me there isn’t much of a difference between zombies and the club scene. Ouch.
So I surprised her one day by getting online (we still have the internet — go figure) and downloading a ton of music and a mixing program. Fran looked at me, smiled that creepy but kinda sexy smile of hers and climbed up the watchtower for her shift with my laptop tucked under one arm and her favorite Red Jacket ZK-22 under the other.
That night we were treated to a DJ set most folks never got a chance to hear. She managed to work the gunshots into the mix. It was all kinds of epic. The handful of zombies that made it past what’s left of the mines seemed to love it too. They keened along with the beat. It was the most fun we’ve had in ages.
The furry, Damien, found a needle and some thread in one of the survival kits. He hand-stitched together an animal outfit for himself from an old fuzzy blanket. The dogs aren’t too fond of it and growl, then whine and whimper at it. When Damien wears it around, the mutts dash into the basement and refuse to come out. It makes Damien happy though, and whatever floats your boat works for me. As long as I don’t have to wear one.
* * *
We’ve got a routine going, and when the lesbian couple started an organic garden, we started eating really well. And vegan. We ran out of jerky a month ago, six months after the zombie-pocalypse started. No worries, though. Suzie is a killer cook and Marianne can make beans taste sublime. Life is good.
I mean it. Life is really good. We have a family unit of sorts, a garden, and even a litter of puppies. The late-bloomer, Tom, has a knack for animal husbandry (who knew?) and is talking about maybe going out and getting some goats when the zombies thin out more.
I hate to say it, but the zombie-pocalypse has been good for us. Well, not so good for Ronnie, but if it weren’t for him, we wouldn’t be here in our cozy little Zombie-Pound, living the good life. Here’s to you, Ronnie!