The following is a sample decision point.

Hunker Down

First things first. You go outside and start ripping out planks from your fence. Your picketed American dream will now have to protect you from the American nightmare. Bringing everything you could possibly need inside your house, you close and lock the door, but not before spray-painting “Alive inside” above the entry. Hopefully the undead don’t read.

Boards and nails on every door and window, you blot out the sun for God-knows-how-long. But you’re a survivor, and smart, so you keep busy preparing. Beyond the boards you prop your couch, bookshelves, entertainment stand, whatever; up against the openings to your home.

The barricades securely in place, it’s time to set up for the long haul. You fill your bathtub and sinks to the brim with fresh water—it could turn off before you know it.

Everything prepared, you set your favorite blunt object within arm’s reach and sit down to watch the news and ceremoniously burn the bills you’ll never have to pay again.

 *             *             *

Only six days into hiding, you get your first visitors. The phones don’t work, and your television and internet have long been down, so you’re unsure what to expect. You’ve played about as much solitaire as is humanly possible, and in an ironic twist of fate, your house is now more clean and ready for company than it was before things went bad. There were a few scary nights, rustling in the bushes, scratches at the doors and windows, and a slight moaning to ensure you haven’t slept much. But no one has really tried to get in—until now.

The two zombies outside paw at your house like velociraptors checking the fences for weak spots. You’re not sure if you did something to alert the undead but they’re here, and they really want in. The moaning is louder than you’ve heard, and much more urgent.

With a crash, one of your window panes is smashed in. Your home security alarm blares ferociously. What might have helped alert you while you were sleeping now alerts the whole neighborhood like a dinner bell.

You curse yourself for keeping it on and run to turn it off. But the damage is done. With the window open, they can smell you, and now you can hear the distant moan of more to come. The boards are still in place, so that should buy you some time—but the boards won’t hold forever.

Fend them off one by one with my Louisville Slugger. I don’t care if I have to battle the whole town!

I’ll grab what I can and head up to the attic. Spiders and rats over zombies any day!

Down into the basement. I’ve already got some stuff down there, and it works in the movies!


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