“Not preparing is choosing to die.” I read that somewhere, probably on the wall of a public bathroom stall.
I don’t want to die. At least not too gruesomely. And not slow either. Preferably in my sleep, but the chances of that are rather slim these days.
Stupid zombies. Can’t even die properly anymore.
Sun’s out today after a week of rain, the full blast of its rays reaching out to melt my retinas through the double-glazed lounge window. It was a beautiful and spectacular morning — well, almost. If the quiet wasn’t occasionally intruded by the groaning of the Undead, echoing in the distance.
Finn slept over last night, after a PS4 marathon of Dying Light, and was snoring away in the spare room, so I refrained from checking the radio. Don’t know why I even try, since every frequency just gives me static – with the exception of the looped broadcast.
As I sat on the couch, I tucked my feet under my legs. Sipped my chai latte, while I quickly scanned my check list, wondering if it would be up to Bear Grylls standards. Right, who am I kidding? While I have a Grab & Go Kit at the ready, it seriously needed an update, and an upgrade.
I want a better weapon too. One that won’t give me Carpal Tunnel Syndrome. The fire pit poker has the weight for breaking brittle and rotting bones, but too awkward to be lugging around. A month ago, I dropped it on my left foot, and it hurt like a motherfucker.
I screamed like a banshee. But only with my inner voice, because nothing announces “snack time” to the infected like howls of CRAPSHIT! and FUCKINGHELL!!!
Somehow, it hurt more when you can’t cuss out loud.
When I showed Finn my list, he laughed at the Smoked Salt inserted at the bottom of the hierarchy. Until I pointed out that his included an Aeropress, with extra filter packs. Crazy coffee junkie. At least my superfluous item fits in a side pocket.
Also, if I’m going to be on the run, I won’t be eating bland food. I refuse! My meal will have flavor, dammit. It will be smoky, with accents of coriander, mustard, and garlic. Hints of shallots and chili flakes, completing the whole range of awesome.
And when it all comes down to forcing myself to eat lawn clippings to save myself from starvation, then I’d be chowing down on the tastiest lawn clippings on Earth. With a side of the most divine salted dirt.
Fuck eating flavorless food. No way.
On that note, I wonder if I could sneak in a bottle of Truffle Oil in my bag. Leather would taste better with that.
You know, for when I get desperate enough to eat my shoes for protein.
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