Normally I'm confident enough to talk openly about feelings. I'm usually okay with the expression of emotions… but this whole zombie apocalypse thing would have me inventing new words, and new levels of profanity that didn't exist previously. Quite frankly, I don't have the time to talk about how I feel any more.
At this current moment, I'm hunkered down in a safe room with 3 other members of my expedition team. We were forced to expand our foraging area to support the growing number of survivors that have made it to the ZFZ (Zombie Free Zone).
Cowboy, Lunchbox, and Monster were fortifying any areas that might be weak to attack after Cowboy noticed that the one exterior wall of the building we were sheltering in was mostly just 2x4's and plaster and would never hold back any sizable onslaught, let alone just a single one of those giant hulking mutants that have affectionately been dubbed "Tanks" by the survivor populace. After shoving cabinets, shelving, and mattresses against that wall to hopefully increase its strength and add a little bulk to the all important, sound muffling, thickness of the wall in general.
Once Cowboy seemed satisfied with the structural resilience of the safe room, we all relaxed a bit and sat down to reload and check out supplies. We had been restocking safe rooms for months now. Spare weapons, ammo, simple medical kits and the occasional Molotovs or modified pipe bombs. We rigged the pipe bombs with a flashing LED and a small speaker that would emit a number of loud 'beeps' that infuriated most zombies and would bring them swarming in, kicking and stomping the bomb… before it exploded, splattering zombie applesauce a 30 feet in every direction. My crew had nicknamed these little joys "Zombie Candy" because of how the common infected would chase after them… even off of tall buildings, through windows, and into raging infernos. You need to see the humor in things or you will go crazy.
I reloaded my AK-47 and double checked the fuel and cutting-chain on the chainsaw I had become famous for. "Bessie" I named her. This saw had saved my ass more times than I cared to remember. I had the strength and size to wield it like a berserking lumberjack, so it just kind of made sense to keep her around. The rest of my team had their respective quirks insofar as weapon choices too. You don't survive through an undead Hell-on Earth without developing a few personal issues about the weapons you use to stay alive. Lunchbox was never far from his street-sweeper, pistol grip, full-auto shotgun; and Cowboy would give up a good woman before he would give up his magnum. Monster was simple like me. His Fire-axe "Susanne" had been with him since the beginning. On nights like this where we were forced to camp out in a safe room, Monster would sleep with "Susanne" next to him on the mattress, with his arm lovingly draped over it as though he was keeping it warm. Cowboy and Lunchbox had a running bet about how long it would be before Monster started Kissing Susanne goodnight.
Once the final checklist was settled and the supplies stored away, we chatted for a few minutes about the grocery chain shipping warehouse we were heading for. Reports were consistent that the facility was still in good shape and showed no signs of being ransacked. Unfortunately this could mean its crawling with employees-turned-zombies…
The morning came like every morning. The soft, first rays of warm sunlight fill the room and we open our eyes to see the ballet of tiny dust motes dancing in the beam of light coming from the single small window in the heave safe room door we installed yesterday. We designed and built these doors to withstand the full onslaught of a thousand hammering undead fists. Even one of the hulking "Tank" mutations would do little more than rattle the hinges once the door is properly sealed. Our doors have protected travelling survivors for over a year and it still strikes me as odd that nobody ever stops to wonder who keeps putting them in and why they are always the same. Nobody stops to think about WHY there is always food and ammo in these safe rooms. I guess that with everything else on their minds, who gives a damn about the details.
The morning shuffle is always the same. We take turns on the toilette (or the bucket, if we were not lucky enough to find a sturdy enough structure with a working crapper) and we crack our knuckles, stretch our muscles… take a deep breath… and open the door.