The sound of my deadbolt clanking into place passed through my ears and directly to the part of my brain that told me I was safe. I let out a sigh of relief as I set my putter down next to the collection of umbrellas guarding my door. I know commutes can be a bitch, but this is getting out of hand.

D.C. is now officially re-infested with zombies. New zombies, old zombies, historical zombies – it looked like pretty much everyone who’d ever died here has come back to life. And they’re all trying to eat me.

So why am I still here? Why did I run halfway across the city, just to come back to this 500 sq. ft. apartment? Why the fuck did I just run home!???!?!?!?

What is it about my apartment that drew me back against all odds? It’s just a few rooms in a building, it’s not even really “mine.” It’s just a nest. Why did I think that this place would be any safer than any other place? By now there have got to be shelters, fortresses, compounds with other people that I could go to. So why didn’t I go there? Why did I come here:

Well, let’s see. It’s on the 4th floor, so the windows are safe. Ok. I’ve got a good solid set of golf clubs for protection! I’ve got a decent stock of canned food, and more beer than I can drink in a month. Check!

But…my front door isn’t exactly reinforced steel, just a normal door. Hmmm. The water, gas and electricity are all dependent on the mechanical room in the basement, so if anything went wrong, I’d be kinda screwed. Hmmmm. I do have a nice leather couch. That’s great. I also have a nice espresso machine. That’s bordering on useless at this point.

“I’ve drastically underprepared for this,” I said out loud to myself, “and it’s too late to do anything about it.” What good is canned milk if my espresso machine can’t froth it?

An emergency radio, hand crank generators for cell phone and flashlight, beef jerky (by the kilo), aspirin, advil, bandages and ointments, rubbing alcohol, bleach, quick drying socks and underwear, wool everything, string, rope, duct tape, sewing needles and thread, bungee cords, maps, a compass, flares, batteries, matches, a good knife, a tent, a sleeping bag, a bike, water bottles, pens, paper, vitamins, and dare I say it…a bible?

Fuck! What the crap have I been doing all these months. I shouted at myself, cursing and beating my chest in frustration. “Really Dingle? You have some golf clubs and some canned milk, that’s it. Great work, really. You deserve a round of applause!” I yelled at the me in the mirror.

I went over to the window. I opened it with both hands and peered outside. There were a few zombies pacing aimlessly halfway down the block.

“Fuck you,” I pointed at the one that looked vaguely like a politician.

“Fuck you!” I pointed at Zombie Drug Dealer.

“Fuck you!” I pointed at Zombie Jogger.

“Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you! Fuck. You.” I pointed at them all.

They heard me. They started scurrying over to my building. Moaning, snarling, reaching up to me in my fourth floor window. I contemplated jumping. “That would make you happy, wouldn’t it?” I asked. “Graaahhhahannnnnggggghhh,” was the only response they had.

I broke away from the window and paced around my apartment-cum-holding cell. I was sweating, my heart was beating at an ill advised pace, my hands were erratically playing musical instruments that weren’t there.

Screw you couch. Screw you flatscreen TV. Screw you golf clubs and canned milk. Screw you espresso machine.

I walked over and ripped the espresso machine cord out of the wall. I picked it up – it was heavier than I remembered. I hoisted it up over my head and walked to the window. Screw you all.

I heaved it down towards my zombie fan club. Down it went, cord spinning after it like a propeller. [Whhannk] Through no skill of my own, it landed directly on Zombie Drug Dealer’s face.

The sound of my espresso machine hitting face hitting concrete was therapeutic. Sometimes the off-label use is better for the patient.

“Ok, ok, calm down,” I told myself, “take a deep breath and get yourself a beer.” I complied. And I felt much better. I wry smile broke the plane of my face as I recounted the liberation of my $350 coffee maker.

A few sips later I was at least ten IQ points smarter, or so I felt. I don’t need all these things! I can’t play that guitar in the corner! I threw it out the window. I don’t need four lamps! I threw them out the window. Toaster? Out the window.

My mind was clear. I don’t need all these things, I just need some things…important, useful things.

Aha!! I grabbed my laptop and ordered everything I could think of that would actually help me in this mess. Next day shipping please! (Hopefully UPS still works with all this mess going on.)

By tomorrow I should have everything I need to survive. Now all I need is a plan.