Duty Calls

Every day I do the same; I enter back into regular society, operate as I should, exchange courtesies and, once the day is over, return home and use it.

No one is the wiser, no one knows that always hovering in the back of my mind is my secret, a facet of my life that is mine and mine alone.

People smile and nod at me, I return the pleasantries, safe in the knowledge they don’t know,  they will never know what I do every time I close that door behind me and use it. I couldn’t let them know, otherwise there would be less to go round.

Afterwards I put it away, I don’t want to wear it out. How would I smile back at them if I did? If I knew it was gone I would not smile at all.

I lay it down reverently, caressing it gently and murmuring soothing words under my breath, feeling pure ecstasy tingle on my fingertips. You have to be careful with if, if it gets damaged it might stop working.

I don’t know when I began using it, it became such a part of my life  I can’t remember a time when I didn’t. But It’s no burden to bear, this secret of mine, I have to hide it but that’s part of the thrill.

I’m sure there are others out there who do the same, who scurry away, alone in the dark, and use it. Sometimes a returning gaze carries some flicker of  knowledge, perhaps the same knowledge I hold in the recesses of mine own mind, and I wonder.

But you can never tell, never talk about it.

No, that would not do.

I will carry this to the grave, smiling and nodding.

White

Thickly spun green canopies hang overhead, keeping the sun from their backs, fingers of green reaching upwards, upwards, ever upwards, hoisted by vital and springing bark, rejoicing in full and glorious life.

They ran barefoot, the sand kicking up in puffs behind each footfall, sticking into creases of sun-darkened flesh moist with recent sweat.

The boards are light and easy to carry for the other two,  who laugh with the third struggling at the back. Under his arm the board knocks hollowly against trees, long and heavy it sweeps arcs into the sand. Still they ran all the same; long-limbed and fleeting, strong, like cave-paintings made of dirt, withstanding the ages.

The dense undergrowth and tall trees taper away to reveal a long stretch of dunes dusted with greenery. Golden sand’s stand calmly against row after row of marching waves. The water throbs, rising up triumphantly, to fall suddenly before the finish, crawling feebly up the shore to lap the feet of the three, still laughing, contemplating, chests rising and falling calmly.

Now the laughing stops. Three backs face upwards at the sun unforgiving sun, soothed by the warm waters. Shoulders and arms work methodically, machine-like, eyes focused on the horizon, the next wave. The three make their separate journeys through the living, feeling blue waters. They dive, roll, plunge and pump their limbs furiously to gather finally past the break, skin, bone and muscle against the uncompromising onslought of the ocean.

Chests rise and fall quicker now, not quite heaving but the exertion harks of the test’s to come, demanding respect but offering so much more.

They sit, they wait, smiling and exchanging. One eye constantly rests on the horizon, always watching. The sun shines,  a glassy field glitters under an electric blue sky. It is peaceful, spiritual even, it is natural.

The water grows and shrinks, grows and shrinks. It pulsates, beating like a heart. The tempo quickens, hairs tingle and stand fully erect. The moment is right, the ocean heaves up and gives birth to a giant. One of the three peels off, thrashing ahead of the wave, arms pumping like pistons, legs kick wildly behind. It is the tree-knocker, the leaver of arcs in the sand.

The wave grabs hold of the board, pulling up the tail. It makes all the right motions, its speed picks up and is pushed along in front of the mounting wall of water. It begins to slide the growing face. Almost too big, almost too fast, it is too much, it feels wrong, the rider hesitates, too late to make another decision.

He sits suddenly, throwing his weight onto the back of the board and peeling out of the wave. He pivots and begins to paddle back towards his starting point and the waiting pack. They are gone.

In the distance he can see them, paddling furiously out to sea. Ahead of them in the same direction is a line of mountainous waves far bigger than the one which made the rider hesitate, marching ceaselessly towards him. He stops paddling, torn between heading towards a set so far beyond his skill level to ride, or to head in towards the distant  shore – both equal distances away – before the endless line crashes on top of him in the shallow waters.

His mouth tightens, his face sets rigid against the coming trial, he has made this decision.  Paddling harder now, with more strength and rhythm he heads towards the deep water, and the first in line.

Knifing towards the waves he climbs the face of the first, the water at the summit of the steadily steeper slope cresting, pointing up at the blinding sun, threatening. He makes it over the peak of the first as it crashes behind him, his stroke unchecked. The next wave has already begun to crest before he can begin to make the ascent up its broiling face, he pumps his arms harder, breathing heavily. Before the board has even begun to tilt in the direction of the peak it breaks above him.

The world slows down to a crawl, the rider suddenly becomes aware of a steadily slowing thumping in his ears that can only be his heart, drumming the rhythm of his life. All sound culminates and is suddenly cut off. He watches water droplets shimmering like diamonds, perfectly formed and spinning lazily past his face, reflecting a hundred pinpoints of distorted light. His hair clings wetly, obscuring his eyes but the sun now is no longer in it, hidden suddenly behind a wall of water which arches up over him like a Cobra, spitting and sucking up inside itself, to suddenly fall, barreling and slamming its chest down upon him.

Black. White. Water. Air.

The muffled sound of water moving against water, water moving against air and flesh. Pressure, weight, crushing weight and then release in weightlessness, spinning end over end, rolling, falling, endless spinning. Blue.

He floats in eternity, stunned, battered,

The rider regains his senses. Deep under a battle raging above him he reaches down for the long cord that attaches his foot to the board floating somewhere above him. He need not know what direction the surface is, as this rope, this life-line, will pull him up to air, to life.

He pulls. Reeling it in, but is himself not pulled upwards as expected. He pulls it in faster, heart beating faster now, ears ringing, lungs full of air wishing to gasp, to burst.

He comes to the end of the line. The severed end lies between his hands, he squeezes it tightly, bubbles escape from between clenched teeth and pursed lips.

Lungs fit to burst, hes been under for what seems a lifetime, he kicks out frantically. He can make out glitters of the sun above him, a orb moving through the deep, encouring him towards its warm embrace. Suddenly he feels weightless again, he is near the surface. A giant passing overheard lifts him, rolling him momentarily up with the cresting wave, lifting his head out of the water. He is able to take a lung-full of sweet, salty, life-giving air before he is taken over the falls,  cast down the face of the crashing wave like a rag doll and turned endlessly in its belly.

He is kicking harder now, in his panic wasting precious breath and energy, fighting a battle he could never win. Arms sweeping, fingertips reaching for a cold and distant sun, now taunting and teasing him towards a surface he cannot reach. He is pushed down, all at once pinned by a fantastic weight, even though he now knows his direction he cannot choose to move in it. Lungs are pure fire, muscles sluggish, he forces one last burst of energy and pushes off the bottom. Bubbles stream from his mouth as he screams with sheer inhuman effort. He breaks through the surface, gasping and retching only to be forced back under before he can take a breath. A thousand white fists pummeling him endlessly down, down, deep down, far below the endless marching of the waves.

Eyes screwed shut he tucks into a ball. The ocean batters him, rolls him in its palm, squeezing and turning him, before discarding him in the deep, the darkness. Its quiet down here, almost still. The waves continue far above him, but they have forgotten him now, bored of their plaything, forgetting him as he begins to forget their world.

Behind his closed lids endless faces parade across the shadows of his mind, smiling, laughing, crying. He relaxes, arms outstretched at his sides, legs floating gently below him. There is no sound down here, but loudly in his minds ear he hears his mother calling to him, his father chastising gently. He feels a loves caress linger on his finger tips, a whisper of a kiss brushes gently on his lips. He feels the pain of loss and the happiness of gain. The joy of success and the absolute misery of failure. Missed opportunities and surprise chances taken flash before him, a million memories parading in a magnificent instant, at once he is a small child looking up at giants, curios, at the same time he is a grown man looking down at children, frightened.

He no longer feels fear, he feels at peace. He no longer senses the pain burning in his lungs, his burned out limbs. He feels acceptance. His mind eases slowly back into darkness, eyes fixed closed. The memories begin to fade.

There is only Darkness.

Emptyness.

A void stretches before him, a gaping mouth which swallows him whole. He is falling for eternity, he feels neither time pass nor gravity push him, he does not feel the forces of his spin as he spirals deep into the darkness.

A warm hand reaches after him into the dark.

Fingertips at full extension brush lightly against cooling flesh, to grab suddenly, firmly. An arm pulls with heroic strength up towards sheer, white light.

He is on his knees on a beach, vomiting up water, pain, memories. He rolls onto his back and stares up at the vivid blue sky, so blue it is almost black. He closes his eyes. The two sit on either side of him, laughing.

He smiles.

Tarmac

A man gets into a taxi at an airport.

He shivers, more through habit, it isn’t cold. Rain smatters against the window, collecting into larger beads that worm down the pane, tracing unorganised patterns which distort the lights of the main hanger.

He signals for the driver to move on, his destination on a slip of paper he passes over the front seat. Lifting the collars of his coat against his cheeks he sits back, although he isn’t relaxed. Through the rear window he watches the lights of the buildings disapear into the rain and darkness.

The headlights of the taxi shimmer against the slick, oily tarmac of the road, peircing the darkness ahead with twin beams of dirty white against the black, spotlighting every raindrop as it falls through the glowing spheres.

The wipers tic-toc a steady rhythm, backed by the deep thrum of the tires against the road. He closes his eyes but he doesn’t sleep.

His mind wanders through the passageways of his past. In his minds eye he see’s her again. They are somewhere warm, long ago, small white flowers dot the field, showing up starkly against the green backdrop. She is leaning back, sitting on the grass with her long legs stretched out in front of her, laughing with her head thrown back over her shoulders. He is lying with his head on her lap, facing up at her, watching her laugh. Her long hair is stirring in a slight breeze, the sun behind her hair makes it glow, a beacon that always called to him. He reaches up, trying to touch the halo around her head, imagining it to be warm. She catches his hand in the air and brushes it against her cheek, even now something inside him stirs, his heart skips a beat, he can still feel her smooth skin against his fingertips.

In the back seat his hand closes in memory, rustling the newspaper he is holding, bringing him out of his revery. He lifts his collar up to his cheek once more and leans against the door, looking again out of the foggy window on an alien countryside flying by in the night. In the distance he see’s the lights of a lone farm-house, blurred by the rain, calling someone home.

His mind wanders, his eyes close again, he is tired now, he is not a young man, his body aches, his bones are heavy. His hands lie linked in his lap, palms facing upwards, gold flickers on one finger, a smooth amber river amidst the folds of flesh. He imagines his fingers are entwined in hers instead of his own. He imagines what the feel of her soft hands would feel like now, against his callused and weathered skin, the thought momentarily soothes his aching body.

He relaxes now, leaning back against the seat, resting his head in the nook between door and seat, floating a few feet above the tarmac running under him. He drifts once more through time.

He is standing in the ocean, he is alone. The sky is grey and imposing, clouds heavy with their payloads. He looks down at his hands which carry no rings nor wrinkles, the cold sea is digging icily into his flesh as he turns and see’s her standing, watching him from the path. He is embarrassed, feeling like a child, she laughs at him as a wave reaches up and soaks his cuffs, the thick material clinging damply to his skin. He notices she has picked up his shoes as she turns and walks away, her hair flowing out behind her, shimmering in a glimpse of sun. He runs after her, jumping out of the water  and wraps his arms around her waist, lifting her as she screams. She throws his shoes into the scrub. The memory makes him smile, creasing his lined cheeks slightly as he drifts.

The wheels roll against the tarmac.

This was a 15-minute no-edits free-writing exercise beginning with the line “A man gets into a taxi at an airport.“.

Minor edits after completion in spelling/grammar.

Dating, the relationship interview process.

Dating, a process that one has to go through to obtain a mate. A nerve-jangling, confidence-shaking, sweat-inducing contest of minds and matter.

Is it just a way of prolonging our base animal insticts? Or really just an alternative to saying “I’m not sure if I want to sleep with you yet.” Either way you have to prepare for a series of in-depth interviews deep into your human psyche, treading softly around the egg-shell hazards of your potential mates insecurities and preferences in their future other half.

Of course, sometimes its easy, I mean, the dating game can be a long and joyful process, budding like the proverbial rose into a glorious and warm relationship. Other times it can be useless time spent working yourselves up over subtleties and hidden meanings, stretching your brain-parts around the pyschology behind relationships. Hours spent, sweaty palmed, reading and re-reading texts, thinking back  over hastally mumbled idiocies that might have slipt out over your not-so-silver tongue and then ‘Be-beep’ goes your phone. Gratification! Joy! that warm glow inside after confirmation that you are acceptable to other humans!

Everything in this (human) race is so difficult, made over-complicated by rules and stipulations that we welcome into our lives like the prisoner welcomes a toilet into his bedroom. Its there, it shouldn’t be, but its better than having no toilet at all. Even if it doesn’t have a seat.

Rubbish, I say. Why does there need to be an amber light? Green for go and red for no will rid us of this confidence deminishing, mind melting middle ground. Always needing confirmation, always fearing rejection, and too much of either will make you into an arrogant arse, or a shivering wreck incapable of maintaining any kind of relationship, even with a dog.

Why should a relationship be forged out of something thats so unsure? Because if people didn’t give each other a chance there will be a lot of lonely hearts out there, finding each other on their internet boxes instead of in real life, only to discover the out-of-date profile picture they fell in love with actually belongs to a balding, middle aged man named Frank. Not good if you thought they were a blonde bomb-shell named Francine.

And really, its all just a bit of fun. If you’ve been out of it for a while why not build your confidence back up by test running a few human beings. Thats what they say about finding a job, isn’t it? “Keep going for interviews.”, I remember one of my old tutors saying, “Even if you don’t want the job, it’s all good practice, and when you get an interview for the job of your dreams, you’ll nail it!.”

Well, if you attend enough relationship interviews, you too could end up nailing the human of your dreams.

Animals in advertising

Funny things, animals in adverts. I just watched a string of them peddle me products ranging from car insurance to biscuits, I couldn’t help but think: “why?”.

If you were to enter a shop and see full sized panda, stradelling a leather armchair, attempting to sell you a packet of biscuits – thrusting the torn, battered remnats towards you, the plastic ragged, dripping with saliva, crumbs simply everywhere – well, you would about face and hot-foot it right on out of there.

Say if you were looking for car insurance and spoke to a Meerkat about it I doubt you would get a good deal, I dont think they can even grasp  basic marketing strategies, let alone a phone.

So why have there always been animals in adverts? In some way or another they have always been there throughout my TV watching memory,  pushing their product like trained monkeys, literally.

Is it animal endearment? You know, the old forward-facing-eyes-like-babies trick. Because I don’t feel very endeared to a bunch of chimps, fresh from flinging poop and scratching themselves, capering around spilling my cup of PG Tips (which they probably dipped their fingers in anyway).

Sometimes it just a little too extreme, I don’t think a gorilla could play the drums, not with that much passion anyway. And whats all that got to do with chocolate.

It could be something to do with environmental concerns, there’s enough of them. Advertising is all about attention, and you don’t want attention for not being associated with helping the environment – even if you aren’t – so add a puppy running away with your TP and your sorted.

I’m not saying the product isn’t representing a company that has green value attatched to it, I’m just saying do we need to be told this by having an animal represent the product.

Sure, there must be a record of success, and of course you wouldn’t see a human man nose-deep in some Pedigree Chum making every noise of enjoyment as an advert for dog food (although…) but is it necessary? I think so, yes.

These adverts are catchy (occassionally), humorous (sometimes) and show some level of creative flair (mostly).

Its just when you see back-to-back furry friends inbetween your daytime viewing you begin to wonder if you’re the target demographic for the product.

My cats took no notice of Felix.

What are the implications of the Japanese earthquake for the UK in Foreign Trade?

Although still too early to tell experts are using past natural disasters (Kobe, 1995, 9/11 and Hurricane Katrina, 2005) to shed light on likely economic impacts and predicted timeline following the event.

It has been established repercussions are typically large for up to two quarters following the disaster, rebounding gradually with rebuilding, and concentrated to the region of disaster.

Japan, although being the world’s third largest economy, accounting for 8.7 per cent of global GDP, is not a large market for UK exports, meaning impact, as with the rest of Western Europe, will be small. However, with the global economic climate in such a fragile state as it is currently in there is some vulnerability that would not be present in times of growth.

For support we can look to Germany’s economy. With the most export-orientated economy in Europe, as well as having equal to or larger than export and import shares to Japan as other European economies,  it will be more likely to suffer from any shocks. But with elevated employment levels and wage growth than compared with a year ago, it is at a much stronger point than if the disaster had happened a year ago.

In the short term, whilst the Japanese economy contracts before rebuilding, we have seen direct results following the disaster. But unlike the Kobe drop, where in the following six months the Japanese stock market lost almost a quarter of its value before fully recovering, the Japanese government expects to lose just 1.5 per cent of its GDP, when compared to Kobe’s losses of around 2.5 per cent the outlook is better.

Repercussions closer to home are in relations between car suppliers and auto manufacturers. These relationships, based on just-in-time production with relatively small inventories of parts, are being most sorely hit when parts manufacturers in Japan fall behind demand.

The UK imports £8.5 billion a year in cars, parts and gold, exporting half that in pharmaceuticals, cars and platinum and, in 2009, saw £17 billion worth of direct investment from Japan. Following the quake Japan has fallen behind demand for goods used in industries such as auto manufacture. Vehicle exports, making up ten per cent of Japan’s total shipments, fell by 27.8 per cent in March.

As a result Toyota is reducing output at its UK production plant in Burnaston to the equivalent of three and a half days a week this month. A company spokesperson said Toyota would be 12,600 cars behind schedule in the UK by the end of May. Honda is also shutting production at its Swindon factory by 50 per cent until the end of May.

In order for the event to have greater impact on UK foreign trade there will have to be a significant decline in Japanese GDP, affecting the global market. Temporary instability may arise during Japans predicted second quarter GDP drop.

How to become a Zombie Survival Analyst

If there is always a little voice at the back of your mind scratching away at your sub-concious when you walk past a building with high walls and an automatic gate with thoughts like “those walls are big enough to keep out the horde.”, then you too have the raw talents of a budding Zombie Survival Analyst [ZSA].

Don’t worry if you feel these talents are going to waste, this guide is designed to hone those rough edged skills down to razor sharp edges in preperation for Z-Day, detailing various methods and instances when your growing skills at Zombie survival will come into play.

1. Infection

There are many theories on how the infection is passed, and what the infection itself actually is.

One common and widely held belief, brought to most prominence through George A. Romero’s multiple works on Zombie fiction and film, that the ‘infection’ is germ-based, travelling through a bite, scratch, or the blood of an infected entering a wound or an orifice of one who is not.

Author Steven King, established in The Book Of The Dead (1989 Anthology) the alternative view that once the infection in its form arrives (in this case in a presumably alien construct orbiting the earth) dead bodies who passed before the initial outbreak, aswell as those killed in the following chaos, begin to reanimate.

With this area of thought, rather than the common Shot to the Head theory (see point 4. How to end the whole mess) to kill a member of the horde, every part of the Zombie has to be destroyed as, even when seperated, each part has its own ‘afterlife’ . All dead in this scenario come ‘back’ to life, whereas popular modern theories support the idea that only those who become infected through contraction of the ‘virus’ re-animate after death.

Some ZSA’s believe that the infection itself affects the brain, altering the mind set of the infected individual into a permanent, animal rage. Alex Garland is the most notable figure supporting this theory, in his screenplay 28 Days Later (Film: Danny Boyle) although similarities through infection remain, the infected of this rabies-type plague possess a strong, murderous rage and retain a degree of strength and agility, unlike Romero’s slower, sluggish Zombies whose dead muscles are literally rotting away, making them easier to avoid.

Garland’s Zombie’s also appeared to retain some faculties of thought, suggesting that although the mind is deep in a red fog of hot rage there is some degree of human consideration going on, albeit only controlling levels of the extreme rage they suffer, rather than controlling the rage at all. Romero, on the other hand, supports the belief that the Zombie mind, if any, is set on one thing: consuming flesh. Interestingly the Zombie hoard are known to learn to recognize sound and movement as sources of prospective food/flesh.

This one common denomiter is clear: A germ-based plague triggering a hunger/strong desire for flesh/blood, most available in human form.

In an interesting aside, pioneering Zombie Author, Richard Matheson, describes in his first novel what makes up a typical Zombie apocalypse, but the horde are vampires with all the regular attributes. However, in the Francis Lawrence‘s film adaption with the same name, the horde are a mix of Garland’s ‘rage’ zombies with Matheson’s vampire attributes (some faculty of thought, agility, strength plus allergy to UV and desire for blood rather than flesh).

Comic writer populising Zombie fiction through his famous graphic novel-come-tv series, Robert Kirkman, also supports the traditional Romeroesque view of a slow, sluggish, brain-dead Zombie following the same rules of infection.

2. Recognising members of The Horde.

Now as the days go by and the flesh of those who have succumbed to the infection, in whatever form, begins to rot from their bodies (or deteriorate due to lack of sustanence) the members of the horde will be easier to recognise (Think Michael Jackson’s music video to Thriller), however its those first few days after the first instance of infection no deterioration or even any damaged/infected areas may be visible.

With you ZSA common sense you will already be on your toes, looking for any telltale give aways, depending on the type of infection we are dealing with (which we will whittle down to Matheson, Romero, and Garland Zombies, disregarding King due to insufficient works relating to his theories) there are different signs that reveal the infected.

Matheson Zombies:

• Not Zombies at all, but Vampires.
• Allergic to UV rays (i.e. the sun, can only come out at night) so possess pale skin.
• Complete faculties of thought, language, consideration, etc.
• Pass bacteria infection through bite
• Desire for human blood, in some cases this desire can be controlled – also once this is controlled day-walking can be practiced.

Romero Zombies:

• Easiest to recognise.
• Pass bacteria infection through bite, scratch or contact with contaminated blood, slowly killing the victim who immediately re-animateds after death. Time until death after bite depends on severity of wound/health of victim.
• Once infected are most visibly ‘dead’ with the eyes paling, the skin greying, generally have bites/wounds on show that one could not sustain and live.
• Often appear confused, emit low moans and collide with obvious objects such as doors, walls and other zombies.
• Rather than use speed, strength and agility the Romero Zombie overpowers uninfected by sheer weight of numbers – The Horde.
• Immediate muscle deterioration, become slow and sluggish, and loss of all faculties of thought except:
• A strong desire for human flesh.
• Kirkman’s Zombies in The Walking Dead comic book series also mirror these characteristics.

Note: in Romero’s most recent movie Land of the Dead  set in the the post-apocalyptic Zombie future, surviving Zombies seem to evolve into a state where thought faculties begin to return and they develop the ability to learn, organise and follow ‘orders’. This idea, thankfully, has not been developed upon, although an example of this idea cropping up in further texts/video can be argued when, for example, a zombie see’s another zombie heading for what it believes to be food/cover food (door) and follows suit, thus beginning a hording of walking dead.

Garland Zombie

• Immediate transformation after contact with contaminated material/bacteria through bite, scratch or contact with blood (blood into open wound, eye, mouth, nose, or any orifice).
• Possess rabies-like rage.
• Possess incredible speed and strength after initial infection.
• Easily recognisable at close proximity through bloodshot eyes, giving appearance of literally ‘seeing red’, and throthing at mouth/salivating heavily.
• Difficult to establish at a glance/distance when weakened and slower as appear like uninfected  (small/no visible wounds, slower than recently infected).
• Strong desire for human flesh/murder.

4. Ending the whole mess.

For most, a single shot to the head, thus destroying the nerve centre of the mindless creature. Burning/dismemberment through explosive detonation may suffice in some cases, but risk is run here of a bite by  still animated head/upper body (anti-personel mines don’t kill, just dismember, which equals crawlers – Z Wars, Max Brooks). This will certainly work for a Romero Zombie, Garland Zombies infected by their specific plague in practice can be killed in any regular way as they are not re-animated dead but possessing a rabies-like disease, but I’d still go for the head (quickest route to sick-tory). This can be achieved by blunt instrument, sharp instrument, cutting off circulation to the brain through strangulation/drowning, and the classic shot the head.

5. Places of Interest.

You will need to have a pre-organised list of places and areas that will afford you with protection, help you to avoid detection, but also have readily available resourses nearby (mainly food and water).

Remember, the outbreak could be at any time and you could be in any place so there has to be generic properties to this list that can be found anywhere, any time. Let us address a few of these requisits.

• Access to water: no more plumbing I’m afraid once the workers at the water processing plant are walking cadavars. You can last two weeks without food, but only a few days without water. At the start of the outbreak, wherever you are, fill up every bath, sink, bucket and bowl in your area. Even if you leave this area those passing through later will be very thankful, as will you when you fancy a bath later.
• Access to food: calmly proceed to your nearest supermarket and ransack it for as many canned goods as you can find, these will last longer and generally dont always require cooking. Try to go when there are no crowds as infection from a bite doesn’t always transform straight away, you dont want to be in a crowd when this happens. As the days go by untapped or barely tapped depositories for long-life food like this will become a high necessity.
• Wide open spaces: you dont want to be stuck in a corner when members of the infected arrive, also in areas of high population there will be a characteristically high infection rate and larger hordes. Think countryside manor (28 Days Later) but not the mall (Dawn of the Dead) as you will only end up cornering yourself. Mistakes get made when you are tired and hungry, don’t make them when you still have strength – get out.
• Access to weapons: These will be useful but don’t get too focused on these. The more you focus on looking for something difficult to find the more you are taking away from your other senses that you will need to avoid the horde. Remember: Weapons are Second. In some countries guns are not readily available and there are only so many bullets. Become practiced with more readily available weapons, i.e. blunt instruments (baseball bats, crow bars, spades, fire irons, swords, spears and so on) and learn to make a bow and arrow.
• Access to vehicles: Not as important as weapons, these make noise, require fuel, break down, trap you inside, are flammable, and, if they are a horse, are edible.
• Remember: Avoid, avoid, avoid. Do not willingly enter into confrontation with a member of the horde. Noise, movement and smell (in some cases) all attract attention. Skirt around the edge of large population areas, travel in small groups, adopt a nomadic life (The Walking Dead, Robert Kirkman) and keep up the hope that someone smarter than you are is out there with the cure or a big gun.

So now you are on your way to becoming a profession Zombie Survival Analyst, gleefully toting a baseball bat into the Zombie apocalypse, cans of mystery meat in your backpack and a bath full of water waiting round the bend. Remember, as your dentist says, “prevention is the best cure!”,  so dont get bitten.

Reading List

The Walking Dead, Robert Kirkman

World War Z, Max Brooks

Zombie Survival Guide, Max Brooks

Book of the Dead, John Skipp and Craig Spector.

The Walking Dead (comic book series), Robert Kirkmen

I Am Legend, Robert Matheson