Today I have a guest post from Naomi Brett Rourke, one of my fellow authors from the amazing Enter the Apocalypse anthology from TANSTAAFL Press.
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The stillness pulsed and to Chuck it seemed like he was underwater with that cool hush that he remembered from boyhood swimming pools and still, glassy lakes. For Chuck, there were no more lakes.
My Jeep Apocalypse
I want my internal organs to stay where they are. The zombie apocalypse will happen. I am convinced of it. I’m so sure that this will happen, that I have decided that my next car will be a Jeep. Something with 4-wheel drive, big-ass tires, halogen headlights, the works. I can’t run–well, I can but a toddler can catch me—so I need a car to do my running for me. My lovely children say that they want me with them when the zombie apocalypse occurs. This sounds sweet but only until they explain that with me running with them, I’ll be zombie-fodder while they get out of Dodge. I love my children.
So next, what color? Black or matte grey would be good. I can hide in the leaves and the shadows. I don’t think zombies see color all that well. I might be mistaken but you always see them running after bleached blondes and redheads. Maybe they don’t see salt-and-pepper. I can only hope. In that case, my daughters will be the first to go. One has gorgeous long blonde-brown hair and the other has eye-catching violet. Not lavender. Not purple. Glowing violet. Who wants me with all those visual victuals running by? This is why I shy away from bright red, fluorescent green, or flaming orange for my new car. While those colors are cute in day-to-day driving in the non-zombie world, they would be huge targets to any semi-color-impaired zombie. Now that I think about it, the dead-alive guys are used to seeing red. Blood red. They’re like earth-bound hummingbirds driven to suck at every red flower they see. Okay, nope. No red for me.
Oh, and snow tires! I have never seen zombies in snow. Since their blood doesn’t run anymore maybe they freeze like a side of beef in a restaurant freezer. My problems would be over. I hate the cold but if it kept the brain-eaters away, give me skis and a snowplow! Of course, with global warming I would have to pick my snow palace carefully. No California bunny-slope, weekend-away cute cabin for the Glampers (glam campers.) Canada, baby! As far North as I could get. And if the zombers can get to me through the snow, I’ve heard freezing to death doesn’t really hurt as much as getting your head bashed in by a hungry zombie or having two of them tear you apart for a little light meal of organs and intestines…while you’re still breathing.
Next problem: should I stay with my children or cut out on my own? I’m not really the outdoor type. My version of camping is a five-star hotel. I probably wouldn’t be able to hold out for very long in the open. However, I have seen possibly every movie out there so I remember little things like positioning a mirror so a dumb zombie goes after that or to hole up in a mall with pull-down metal doors. Wait – as I recall that didn’t turn out so great in the movies. Maybe I should go and give my zombie wisdom to my offspring after all.
My son is a wonderful possibility. He a great shot. He’s a hunter. He’s bagged deer, ducks, and Dos Equis. As long as the bullets hold out — and as long as the abandoned Wal-Marts and Bass Pro Shops have bullets – I’ll be fine. After that, I’m back to “want to go for a little run, Mom?”
Well, there are always the girls. On one hand, the girls would be useless. Other than their flying hair, they’d flap their hands and scream. Run and scream. And there I would be again. The last place runner in a dead-heat race. Did you see what I did there? “Dead-heat?” Yeah. Anyway I spread the cards, I’m the loser with my kids in a stayin’ alive race. And that’s fine. I love my kids and want them to have the best. But in a zombie apocalypse, it’s every man – or mom – for herself.
The more I think about it, I think Canada is the answer. I’ll trade the black Jeep for a white one, trade my bikinis for fur coats, and sell my bicycle for a snowboard. But Canada, not Alaska. I hear The Thing likes organs too. Hey, Kurt Russell’s a badass. Maybe he can protect me.
Naomi Brett Rourke is an author and a teacher living in Southern California with her husband and is Mom to a variety of children and animals. Naomi has been published in numerous magazines and anthologies and is working on two novels. She has stories coming out in the anthologies Distressing Damsels (late April) and Straight Outta Tombstone (July 4th and on pre-sale now.) Visit her at: www.naomibrettrourke.com, on Facebook at naomibrettrourke, on Instagram at naomibrettrourke, at Twitter @NaomiBRourke