Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

By Tracie McBride

An ex-boyfriend once said to me, with much disdain, “you’d be useless in the apocalypse.”  He was a huntin’, fishin’, campin’ out under the stars kind of guy, and my lack of interest and ability in any of those things marked me as, not only useless, but probably a liability (I did outfish him once, but he did all the messy stuff, like baiting the hook and gutting the fish; I just had to reel it in and cook it.  At best it was a collaborative effort.  At worst, it was sheer dumb luck on my part that I caught dinner and he caught nothing).

Eighteen-odd years on, and I have not forgotten those words.  They surface with regularity in our household, where How To Survive The Zombie Apocalypse is a popular dinnertime conversation topic (the ex was talking more along the lines of a nuclear winter, but I believe the skills required to survive an apocalypse are transferable across most apocalyptic scenarios).

I don’t know how to hunt.  I have only the most rudimentary foraging skills.  I need help to fish.  I can’t build things.  I can identify a trigger on a gun, and I know which end not to look down, but that’s about the extent of my knowledge of firearms.  I have no medical skills to speak of.  I’m not strong enough to wield a bludgeoning instrument with effectiveness, have no archery experience, and armed with a chainsaw, I’d be more of a danger to myself than anything else.  And I’m getting too old to contribute to repopulating the planet.

So what can I do?  I’m a reasonably competent home cook, but I’m guessing that skill will be redundant in the zombie apocalypse; the only thing you’ll need to know about food in that situation is how to avoid food poisoning.  I’m good at writing lists and counting money and filing things in alphabetical order and being nice to small children and animals.  Suffice to say, one thing at which I would be superlative in the zombie apocalypse is tripping over my own feet and providing fodder to the zombies, thus allowing all the useful people to escape.

Snareville - where zombie survival is an art form

“I’d be useless in the zombie apocalypse,” I say to my husband.

“That’s not true,” he says.  “They’ll always need storytellers.”

Pffft.  He can afford to be patronizing; his nine years of service in the New Zealand Army make him better equipped than most for survival.

Oh yes.  That was the other thing I’m good at; choosing a spouse.  Stick with him, and I’ll be able to swan about in the apocalypse, writing lists and patting puppies and telling stories around the campfire.  Much the same as I do now, really.

“Honey…have I told you lately how much I love you…?”

 

The Worlds In Which We Live

By David Youngquist

I was at an event last Thursday with Matt Nord, another writer of dark speculative fiction. I was hoping for a better turn out than we got. The event was well advertised. The gentleman conducting it had been on the radio talking about it. Fliers were up all over town. It was all about zombies and vampires and werewolves (oh my!) and I figured we’d have a good turn out this close to Halloween.

We got six people. Two cousins of Matt. One of his old teachers, and the rest were people in the library who wandered in for hot cider and a soft chair. One gentleman proceeded to take off his shoes and rub his feet the rest of the evening. Ah well. Literary events in small towns. Gotta love ‘em.

We did, however, have a good discussion between two writers. You know, those kind of talks you don’t get to have with people you work with daily. You can’t really talk about how a character in your book gives you trouble because he wants to do something you don’t want him to. Or you have to kill this other character even though you really like her. Tell that to someone in your day job, and most likely, the least you’ll get is a weird look and “Well, you’re the writer, do what you want.”

One thing we talked about was the worlds we live in. Our real, everyday worlds where the kids get sick, the wife needs help with the dishes, and you forget to pick up milk on the way home from work. And the world we create where we decide who gets sick, the houses never seem to get cleaned, but are never dirty, and what’s milk  anyway?

It was interesting to talk about this weird little way we live our lives with another writer and a scattering of fans. The discussion evolved out of talk of how some people lose themselves in the world you create. Sometimes literally. People who become your characters. Granted, I’m not big enough to have that happen yet, but we discussed some of the Star Wars and Star Trek fanboys for a bit.

Some people seem to have an internal glitch somewhere, some need, that gets filled by living that fantasy life. People who become that Jedi, that space explorer. People like that tend to worry me. I loved Archon, and loved being arrested by the 501 Storm Trooper Brigade. My bail went to a good cause, and the folks running it were a blast to talk with and be around. Folks who can keep their realities separate generally are fun people with great imaginations. I worry about the ones who wear their Jedi robes around the house.

I’ve met two writers who became lost in the worlds they created. Both fantasy writers. Both had been working on these books since high school, which is to say ten and fifteen years respectively. Same book, same world. Just immersed in the world they preferred to live in. Where they call the shots. Where they rule. Where they can kill off the people who antagonize them if they want with no repercussions.

I had offered to help both of them work on their stories. To clean it up, you know. After fifteen years of work, it might need some editing. Nope. No thanks. Appreciate it, but don’t need your help. One guy actually got nervous to the point of stuttering and sweating at the thought of me offering changes to his book.

That’s when I realized that for all their talk about being the next Tolkien, the books would never see an editor.

I’ll let you in on a secret: I’m ready to move away from Snareville. As much as I love Dan, Pepper, Cindy, Jinks and the whole crew, I’m ready to go. Adrian Chamberlin and I are working on the third book in the series together, and having a ball doing it, but after living in that dark world for the better part of three years, I’m ready to move on.

I’ve said before that we’re not all horror writers all the time. As much a triumph the folks of Danny’s world have pulled off, it’s too dark a place to live all the time. I’m looking forward to getting back to Gwennolin. I haven’t talked with Black Jack or Tabby or Mau-Pang for awhile. I enjoy the people of Felis, even the weaselly ones.

I’ll grant Jack’s not always a pleasant guy. Matter of fact, he starts out as a rather suicidal drunk, but he was fun to mature on the page. Gwennolin itself is a place of magic. It’s really not a typical fantasy book, but I’ve concluded that none of my work is typical anything. It’s a fun place, and as many troubles Jack gets into, I’m looking forward to spending some time there. Maybe someday at Archon I’ll see a couple people dressed as Jack and Tabby.