Time for another apocalypse fantasy. Zoic and I were stir crazy today. The pressure of dealing with the apocalypse is intense. Staying inside hardly seems safe. So we go out. Today was my choice, and I had a very specific grudge to work out. I selected a corporate guitar store. While there are better stores in town, I feel like they are deserving of more respect than this one.

It was a bit of a drive, but there aren’t exactly speed limits anymore, and hitting the infected is sort of the goal, so we made it quickly. It was a part of town we hadn’t been to, so we had to scope it out a bit. Plus, we went in armed. The general rules for insane, risky behavior in the apocalypse, if I was a rule making type, are never leave without fully loading your weapons, bring something that doesn’t need reloading, and have enough fire power to kill a large group of zombies. Maybe put something in there about saving ammo, etc. We really just make it up as we go along.

We parked the car out in front of the store. The windows are lined with bars inside, and it looked like someone had tried to lock things up in the last moments. These are always interesting circumstances. You never know what you’re going to find.

Zoic laid her gun right up close to the lock, and took care of it in one.

“Remind me to get a gas torch.”

We went through the usual steps. “Hello?” “Is anyone in here” “We’re not infected”. No responses. As usual, the infection had spread before they locked the doors. Rookie mistake.

We walked around cautiously. No sense getting maimed by a guitar shop employee. That would just be sad.

There were eight of them walking around. Manager. Keys. Drums. Guitars. Basses. Electrical. A couple customers. The employees were nearly indistinguishable from their living forms. We made quick work of them, and my, it was satisfying. Covering one wall with Unnecessary Pretentiousness. Covering another with Idiocy. Putting the body of a guitar through the brains of Just Plain Unhelpful. Did I know these people? Unlikely, but they’re not much different from their corporate brethren elsewhere.

We fixed the door, so that only a crack remained open. Enough for one infected to enter, but not easily. I selected my tool. They had a single Rickenbacker 4003 in the red finish. Truly a beautiful instrument, it had been the object of my dreams in the old world. But I wasn’t about to stop there. I strung together as many amps as I could find. I pulled all of the effects out of their boxes and glass cases and put them together. Then I turned it on. Standing on my make-shift stage, I played a long, sustaining pitch of the open E. Low, and gravelly, the building shook. It took Zoic completely by surprise. She had selected the Gibson Les Paul for her tool, but with entirely different purpose. Taking a swig of off-brand rum, she waited. I played more. I played what I could remember. I was at least a year out of practice, and my hands had seen some things in recent times, but I was emboldened by the massive sound coming from behind me.

Then they came. One at a time, hardly a problem for Zoic, known to go head to head with five or six.

First, an infected in a dress shirt and tie. Pants MIA. He stumbled in, confused by the vibrations. A few more notes more fully confused him. Zoic prepared a rather large swing. She struck him right in the head, taking it off. The guitar, unharmed. Then another. A younger woman. Nice dress. Might have turned at a party. Zoic brought her axe down in the center of her skull. Then dragged the body over with the other one.

Our bottle neck seemed to be working. Another zombie, mostly disoriented. Zoic kept fighting, I kept playing.

Then two entered. Zoic swung her instrument hard, knocking one into the other, falling neatly into the pile. Two more. Our defenses were breaking down. Three entered. Two went for Zoic, one came for me. A fast one. A complete surprise. I saw the look in his eye and reacted almost automatically and completely regretably. The strap came off of the shoulder, the bass came forward, and I thrusted into his head. He fell back. I hopped down from my perch and I smashed his head in with the body of the bass. It cracked. The contact with the concrete floor did not make it happy.

By now, Zoic had switched to bullets, and the horde was rushing in. I pulled a sharpened machete I found a while back from its holster on my side and got to work cutting. We weren’t overwhelmed, just a bit unprepared. With the spacing of our city, there are never more than maybe thirty or forty infected in a group. Just wait it out.

The end came. The floor of the music shop was littered with bodies. 49 Infected. In the interest of returning, we dragged them all out and set fire, as usual.

Returning inside for a final sweep, I came back to my beloved Rick. There it lied, neck snapped from the body. There was nothing I could do to fix it. I removed the pickups and the bridge and most of the wiring. I put them in a bag I found behind the counter.

Then we left.

I was born for this.

Rok got the easy bake oven frosting kit. He’s been decorating small cakes for an hour. Most of them are wildly inappropriate. He made a cookie with pink frosting that spells out “cum dumpster”.

It occurs to me that I am very well suited to this particular apocalypse. Had the circumstances been any different, I would probably be dead now, and someone else would be maintaining a blog of their daily minutiae.

Had I needed to start a camp fire, I would be dead. Learned how once, forgot now. Luckily, there are lighters all over the place.

Had I needed to build a shelter, I would be dead. Fortunately, there are plenty of shelters that no one’s really using any more.

Had I needed to be particularly prepared for the apocalypse, I would be dead. At the end of the world or society or whatever, I had with me on my person or in my car: Two flashlights, an extra pair of underwear, a crumpled bag that once held tacos, a knit blanket, and a fountain pen (also the black dildo that Zoic mentioned. It’s a long story, and I don’t want to get into it now). Nothing there that would have really saved my life in any dire circumstances. The blanket is warmish, the flashlights have helped me see in the dark a lot, the paper bag was a paper bag, the pen might have helped fend off some pen collectors, and the dildo would probably only have been useful in distracting a couple of lesbian demons long enough for me to run away. I can dream. We’re not talking about a nuclear shelter here, or a stash of clean water. There were no fire arms.

Had I needed to kill an animal, I would be dead. While this one still may come up, it hasn’t yet. Fingers crossed. I’ll have Zoic do it if it needs doing. I bet she would.

Had I needed to convince others I was useful enough to keep around, I would be dead. Luckily, things worked out for me anyway.

Had I needed to go long periods of time without eating, I would be dead. I get grumpy.

Had I needed to go number 2 in the desert, I might have killed myself. It seems like a lot of work.

I consider myself lucky that the requirements in this apocalypse are strangely urban.

Rok made dinner last night entirely in the easy bake oven. Rok is pretty big and tall, so seeing him eat itty bitty plates of macaroni and cheese made him look like a giant. We also had enough pizzas to feed a miniscule village. I’m getting concerned. Seeing Rok hunched over a tiny pink oven, tenderly easing out little heart shaped brownies is downright eerie. Now he’s looking at me while he does it. Stop. Stop it.

I think the most depressing thing I’ve had to do so far in the apocalypse (that’s a bold statement. I’m probably wrong) is killing the formerly homeless. I was never really all that charitable. I never felt like giving someone money was all that helpful. Food? Maybe. Hours out of your day? Obviously. Money? Not really. It’s impersonal, and they’re probably not that good with money if they’re in this position. I always felt like they could make use of the services left in place for them better than they could use my money, except that they didn’t use those services, or the services were inadequate. I would feel bad, but I made it a practice not to carry cash, so I didn’t have to lie. The guilt is worse now. I’m not sure why. I never paid attention to them in life, and now in death I kill them.

You might be asking yourself, how can you tell which of them used to be homeless. It’s still obvious. Even with the decomposition and the wounds, the clothes that were previously rotting are still worse, as is the hair, and the smell is unique.

I fought two of them today. Not sure where they came from, or why they were together, but there were two. Every strike was met by an echo of who they once were. “I just got out of the hospital.” “I just need money to get home.” “I have a family that needs me.” “Hearken all ye followers of Satan. The end is near!” It was sad, really, how little appeared to have changed in their lives over the last few months.

Since Zoic’s recent discovery, I’ve done my best to understand why a family would buy gifts a year in advance. Further, I’ve tried to understand why this isn’t weird to Zoic. She explained to me that her family used to stockpile gifts all year, and then unload them at the end. Apparently she got pretty decent at finding them early. I’ve done my best to explain to her that this is isn’t normal. I’m not sure what the odds are that another family would do the same thing. Also, I can’t understand why a family would have presents in December that they weren’t going to give their kids. New Year’s is only a week after Christmas. Would those presents even be good the next year? Well, I can’t say I’m not enjoying them.

Today I made a pretty awesome discovery. There are still some closets Rok and I haven’t been through. I think Rok likes to pretend nobody else lived here before. I like exploring the remnants of other people’s lives. I’m bored. After killing reanimated corpses not much is sacred anymore. Anyway, I went through one of the closets, and I found some of the Christmas presents that were put away for next year. They must have been the type of people to buy presents for next year at the day after Christmas sales. It was depressing. We got over it though, and I wrapped some of the presents for Rok. He got a telescope and a pink easy bake oven. I gave myself the present of a sea monkeys set. Freeze dried pets! I had sea monkeys when I was a kid. I raised them in the bathroom to cut down on mess, and I was really into them, but my dad knocked them over and most of them spilled down the drain. I never really loved a crustacean again. Are they crustaceans? Brine shrimp? So I was really excited to put them in the tank and see them swim around while Rok made brownies. They’re adorable. I’ve collectively named them Eric after our little tree. It’s good to see a society that is still functioning well. Even if it’s really small. This is probably the only pet I’ll have for a while, so I’m keeping them away from the drain. Oh. Rok made chocolate cake. I’m so happy.

The definition of “value” is completely different now. The things everyone considered as cheap are worth everything, and all the stuff people spent their lives working for isn’t worth anything at all. Canned food is worth more than food that spoils, a good Jeep is worth more than a delicate, flashy sports car, and walkie-talkies are more valuable than a network cellphone that needs both service and a charger. Computers are one of the few things that relatively keep their value. I dumped a lot of my stuff after the first week, mostly sentimental shit. First thing I threw out was a collection of shells my dad used to send to me on holidays; they’re in the bottom of one of the canals downtown. I don’t regret it though ’cause they would have just made me feel worse. Everything now looks like empty torn up shells. All the buildings, all the people. Maybe if you put your ear against a zombie’s mouth, you can hear a city, or a ringtone, or maybe a youtube video, some sign of civilization. All you’d really hear is the zombie chewing on your head, though. I really like looking through old houses, which is sentimental, I guess, but it’s something I would have enjoyed a couple months ago but never would have been able to do. It’s cheap amusement; I can follow the lives of people through the empty husks they left behind. It’s kind of like my TV. The rich houses on hills are nice if you can get them, the zombies have to do manual labor to get up there. They have good stories, and sometimes I keep the keys of certain ones for when we move around. I also take things I like, jewelry mostly. The more worthless something is, the more I like it. I have a mini toaster that’s one of my favorite possessions. The only measurement of value nowadays is how much you like something. I find it refreshing; my opinion is important now. I can’t keep too much anymore, but small, light things are alright. Jewelry is particularly funny to me since it’s worth less than trash now and there’s hardly anyone to appreciate it besides yourself. Zombies aren’t going to care about how pretty that Tiffany’s necklace is. I collect diamonds when I can find them, mostly out of spite. I know how to check houses for “valuable” stuff really well, which is surprising because I never looked through houses before the apocalypse. It’s psychology more than anything. I might have made a fairly good burglar. It bums me out though when I can’t take cool stuff with me. I have run into a couple of things that are too big or impractical to take back. There was a really nice Star Wars pinball machine that I’m still bitter about. I can’t decide if life is more meaningful now or not. A couple months ago it was like when you say the same word over and over again until you can’t remember what it means. Now all the words are new again, but there’s hardly anyone here to talk to.

1. Maintain a fresh supply of brains
2. Lube, lube, lube.
3. Perfume keeps the smell of death at bay.
4. Be understanding.
5. Lower standards of cleanliness.
6. Lower standards of humanity
7. Talk enough for two.
8. Take romantic strolls through the wreckage.
9. Don’t sweat the small stuff.
10. Don’t sweat the big stuff either. Your lover is a zombie.

(Neither one of us has ever been intimate with the undead.)