My old man and I shared a love of horror movies. We didn’t always get along, but we bonded over psychotic axe murderers in masks, vampires, and zombies, especially zombies.
He wryly taught me from a young age that I needed to have a workable zombie contingency plan. He bought me my first and only rifle. Taught me to hunt in the woods. I still have that rifle, and clean it occasionally, but the only reason I kept it in adulthood was for the impending zombie apocalypse.
I had a cellar full of MREs and ammo for the rifle. Plenty of water. I had camping supplies down there. Planks of wood, to nail over my windows. I reckoned that I could probably live down there for a year or more if I had to, but of course I had bigger plans than that.
Once the first wave was over I would go searching for other survivors in my tricked out SUV carrying as many supplies as I could. My chainsaw was permanently in the back so that if it hit while I wasn’t at home, I could still get back to my supplies.
I’d be one of those hero types, leading a band of survivors.
When Z-Day actually came, as it turned out I actually was caught out of the house.
But when I arrived home my neighbours were waiting to kill me. No, they hadn’t turned. But they had seen the five dead little girls climb out of their shallow graves in my backyard. They could still recognise Cindy, whose photo had been on lampposts and milk cartons for the past three weeks.
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Credits to: gigglesfollow
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