Zombie Apocalypse? I’ve Got This One Bagged.
Hello, my ManHandlers. The fine gentleman I’ve posted today is EXACTLY the type of man I’d be looking for if I needed to survive the zombie apocalypse. Okay, truth: I look for this guy every day of the week. He reads. Sexy as hell…(sigh). But this guy is buff, educated and clearly capable. Mmmm. Seriously hot combination.
Okay, on to our topic. ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE. I may have talked before about my husband’s propensity for anything that goes “bang.” If not, I’m bringing you up to speed, so hang on. The Zombie Apocalypse both terrifies and fascinates me. I mean, I’d be scared as hell — these things eat people! But it would be sort of interesting to see mankind resorting to survivalist living. Yeah, I’m a weirdo. But keep in mind, my version of the Apocalypse lasts about, oh, seventy-two hours. After that? It’s over, everyone I loved and liked survived and those I seriously dislike are gone. Kind of a win-win for me. Heh.
Back to my husband. He’s seriously the one person I’d want with me in any extreme situation like this. He’s an avid shooter — shotguns, handguns, rifles, um…potato guns — and he’s a nationally ranked marksman. The only things he shoots are paper and clay targets, but he’s really, really good at both. He’s also taught me to shoot, and I’m proficient with a rifle and really good with a handgun. I’m not making any political stand here, trust me. I’m just saying he’s a crack shot (with a stable mind).
Anyhoo, we live at the top of a pretty fair-sized hill. Next door to us lives a true blue outdoorsman. I’m talking a real hunter-gatherer type guy. His wife is super cool and very capable on her own. I figure between the four of us, we’ve got enough food stockpiled (hey, we’re Southern) for any seventy-two hour emergency, be it hurricane, apocalypse, funeral or last-minute cookout. We’re covered.
They have three dogs that bark at shadows, so we’d keep them around to warn us of any impending horde of the reincarnated that had come to eat our brains. My own dogs? They’d be hiding under the bed. No joke. I sometimes think I should have bought a cat. (sigh) But we’d defend them too. We’d sit on top of our roof and pick them off as they came toward us. Their shambling gate would be inhibited by the hill’s grade, so we’d have time to do what we needed to do. Lulls would see my neighbor and I cooking for everyone. It would be a bonding moment, no doubt. Did I mention we’re Southern?
Once the apocalypse had passed, she and I would be tortured with war stories of near-survival and shots that went wild and how we all nearly died. Which might be true, come to think of it, but I’d rather keep my head in the dark. I’d stick it under the bed but my damn dogs won’t scoot over.