Zombie House

I probably shouldn't be telling you this.  Y'all know our house is the safe house, right?  We're stocked.  We have a plan to pillage the other houses in our HOA. 

My kid is the John Connor of the zombie apocalypse. 

It started in 2008 when I was pregnant with  him.  My version of nesting included stocking up on food and water, and it started before I knew I was pregnant.  The kid knew we'd need it.  Yes, the expiration date has passed on most of the food, but it's canned (tinned as the Brits would say), and it can't be that horrible.  Besides, you never know what you'll eat during that hour of despair.

Anyway.  The scenario is set.  There will likely be 15 people, 11 cats and 4 dogs in this house.  The animals will be the first to go, let's face it.  If we have to toss one out an upstairs window as a diversion, we'll do it.  We already know which of our friends will be the "It's game over, man!" guy, who's going to hook up, who's going to snap and kill one of us, and which dumbass is going to try to train a zombie to ride a stationary bike to power the generator.  (She's not going to live long, that's for sure.)  We also know who's going to punch a hole in the roof and sit up there with a rifle to thin the herd and in which order the survivors will arrive. 


It's our own little zombie LARP soap opera.  There's got  to be a play in there somewhere.