#dead simple

Killing them? That gets easier.

Running? You get good at that too.

It’s the quiet that gets you.

When there’s no one left to fight, no place left to run, no reason left that makes sense- you’re just… there. Breathing. Eating. Waking up the next day like it means something.

That’s the part no one warns you about.

You don’t break when everything falls apart.

Dead Simple (2005) by Peter James Bad joke: Michael finds himself in a coffin six feet under with whisky and an erotic magazine for his stag party. Hours go by, no one comes to pick him up, his fiancée worries and calls Roy Grace. To locate him, the detective has only one lead: the wedding witnesses, all of whom died in a car accident… Yes, it’s a bad joke that turns into a nightmare! From…

And no, not in the “oops I dropped it in the toilet” way — though that would’ve been a mercy. No. I lost it to those jackbooted fascist spreadsheet-humping ARC pricks at a checkpoint.

They flagged me for a “random inspection.” You know, the kind where they “randomly” take your gear, your time, and your dignity. They went through my pack, my pockets, even made me take off my boots. And then they saw my phone and got real quiet.

“Unauthorized communication device,” the guy said.

I said, “It’s a phone. It barely gets signal. It’s cracked. The screen looks like a spiderweb had a panic attack.”

But apparently it’s a security risk. A security risk. Like I’m gonna text the undead: “yo, meetup spot’s the Waffle House ruins. BYOB—Bring Your Own Brains.”

They confiscated it. Just… walked off with it. No paperwork. No receipt. No “file a claim” bullshit. Just pocketed it and waved me on.

That phone had my maps. My notes. My photos. A voice memo of my mom laughing, which… yeah. That one hurts.

So if you’re reading this — especially you ARC scumbags, if you’re scraping this blog for “threats to compliance” — choke on your own authority. I hope my phone bricks the next time you try to charge it. I hope the undead storm your little cubicle fort of misery and leave nothing but your badge number and a half-eaten tie.

Luckily, I managed to dig up the toughest, ugliest, most unkillable phone known to mankind: a goddamn Nokia brick. Thing looks like it survived five apocalypses and a nuclear winter, and still boots up like it just had coffee.

And yeah — somehow this thing can still post to my blog. No idea how. It’s probably powered by spite and dark magic.

Rest in peace, little smartphone.

I used to hate when my mom called me.

Every damn time. Always while I was doing something—eating, driving, doomscrolling, whatever. It was always:

“Hey sweetie, just checking in!”

And I’d say “Yeah, I’m fine, Mom,” in that way where you mean please let me go back to pretending the world doesn’t exist.

And she’d say something silly, like reminding me to drink water or asking if I still had my winter coat.

Then I’d hang up, roll my eyes, and go on with my day.

I would pay actual blood to get one of those calls right now.

I don’t know where she is.

No clue if she made it out, or if she…

I mean, she lived in the suburbs. Not exactly tactical central.

She was strong, though. Not in a guns-and-knives way, but in that stubborn, single-mom-who-survived-three-hurricanes kind of way.

She probably turned her neighborhood watch into a goddamn militia.

That’s what I tell myself, anyway.

But it gets harder every day not to picture her—

—just not making it.

Not even knowing what hit her.

And I keep thinking about the last time we talked.

She asked if I wanted to come over for dinner, and I said I was busy.

Busy doing what, Cass? Watching dumb videos and microwaving burritos?

Yeah.

Real busy.

So, I don’t know.

If you still got someone out there—mom, dad, friend, whatever—

and you’ve been putting off that call,

don’t.

Don’t wait.

You never know when the world’s gonna end.

Or worse—

when it already did,

Okay, so—picture this. I’m raiding a gas station, right? Trying to decide whether I want to risk food poisoning from a dented can of chili or just eat another goddamn protein bar that tastes like drywall, when I hear the unmistakable sound of a scuffle outside.

I peek out the busted window, expecting the usual: a guy screaming, a shambler groaning, maybe someone panicking and firing wildly like it’s the 4th of July.

Nope.

It’s just this dude. Quiet. Calm. Holding a shovel.

A shovel.

And not even a cool one. Like, not sharpened or reinforced or dipped in barbed wire or anything. Just a boring old rusty Home Depot garden-variety dirt flinger.

And he wrecks them.

One swing—whap, zombie’s head is backwards. Next one, thwunk, right in the knee, and that thing just collapses like an old lawn chair. Then he stomps its head with a boot that still had a price tag dangling off it. Stylish, right?

And the guy? Doesn’t even say a word. Just scoops up a dropped backpack with the same damn shovel, slings it over his shoulder, and walks off like it’s just another Tuesday.

I was so stunned I didn’t even loot the store. I just stood there, holding a can of expired peaches and questioning everything I knew about physics and weaponry.

The other day, I found a stash. Like a real, honest-to-god freezer chest full of pizza rolls. Do you know what that does to a person who’s been living off canned beans and squirrel jerky for six months? I nearly cried. I hugged the box. I whispered "it's okay now" to a bag of Totino’s.

So I drag them back to camp like I just found the Holy Grail, light a fire, make a little metal pan, and lovingly roast those greasy bastards like they're filet mignon. I take one bite—just one—and then WHAM.

Zombie. Right through the bushes. No moaning. No warning. Just full sprint, like it smelled the flavor and came to ruin my night.

I panicked. I flung the pan. The pizza rolls flew through the air like cheesy little comets. One lands in the fire. One lands in my boot. One bounces off the zombie’s face.

Which is the only good part. It actually staggered. Like it was offended by the taste.

Long story short: I killed it. My boot smells like death and marinara. And I will never trust pizza rolls again.

Long hair? Looks cool in the movies.

Out here? It’s a handle.

Zombies don’t aim. They grab. And guess what they grab first? That thick, luxurious ponytail you thought made you look like a badass.

Nah. It makes you look grabbable.

I've seen it happen. Screaming, thrashing, and that awful snap when someone’s neck goes the wrong way because a shambler got a good tug. And don’t get me started on looters. If they’re dirty enough to shoot you, they’re dirty enough to drag you by the scalp.

So—scissors. Razor. Knife. Hell, a broken bottle if you have to. Just get it short.

It’s not about looking good. It’s about not dying.

~Cassie

(pixie cut, zero regrets)

Okay so, fuck everything about today. I saw a dog. A DOG.

Like an actual German Shepherd-looking thing, sitting on a porch with its head cocked, wagging its tail like it was about to ask for belly rubs and a treat. I about cried right there. Thought maybe it’d wandered off from a survivor group or—I don’t know—not be totally nightmare fuel wrapped in fur.

So I got close. Stupid, I know. You can shut up now.

I get maybe ten feet away and it just… changes.

The wagging stops. The head tilts the other way, like something in it was clicking into place. Its eyes go dead. I shit you not—its tongue flopped out like it’s trying to taste the fear in the air.

It leapt straight at me. No bark. No warning. Like it went from Lassie to Cujo in zero seconds flat.

You ever had a childhood memory try to kill you? Because that’s what that was. That’s not a dog anymore. That’s a goddamn Jeckyl in a fur coat and I hate it and I hate this apocalypse and I’m never trusting anything that wags again. Ever. Tail, tongue, finger, you wag at me and we’re fighting.

So yeah. That’s the rant. Jeckyl dogs exist. They're fast, they're clever, and they use nostalgia like bait. Totally, irrevocably, and cosmically fucked up.