December 12, 2016
A grocery store is a good place to hide. Do not underestimate your own resourcefulness, your strength. Comfort one another trapped, away from loved ones, but do not fear your thirst. Work together to see babies again or to avenge their deaths. If the zombies find you, bash their slack-mouthed heads against linoleum tile with five-gallon bottles of Tide, gouge the brain with beer bottles and broom handles. Barricade! Barricade! Barricade! with fifty-pound bags of dog food. Do not use sides of beef obviously or shopping carts which roll. Unfurl and plaster aluminum foil over windows until it’s gone. In a pinch, find the picnic supplies and un-fold all the paper tablecloths. Hang them over the long windows in double layers with packing tape from the stationery aisle. If you make it through the night, avoid using the P.A. to rally those left among you, as zombies have keen hearing. Instead, a crude telephone, something like you and your cousin devised, when you were kids, decades ago and far away from the city, with empty soup cans and long, long string and bunkers of unfathomable time.