A Little Paranoia

"Paranoids are people, too; they have their own problems. It's easy to criticize, but if everybody hated you, you'd be paranoid too. - D.J. Hicks".

While silly, it makes sense in the same way that crazy people never think they're crazy. You see, I too carry a little paranoia around, useful for the times where I don't feel like being completely rational. These times include the moments just after a zombie flick, where I must thoroughly sweep the house for signs of the undead. (So far, I've found nothing). The one I bring before you today is that of using the bathroom, especially when in someone else's home.

Just the thought of being disturbed whilst amidst mine private business is a horrifying eventuality. Can you imagine the embarrassment?! Sure you can. There's been at least one time where that door at least rattled while someone tried to get in, and you freaked out. Probably felt like your heart might explode. Really, there's nothing you can do in that scenario. You'd be caught, quite literally, with your britches down (or at least partly, depending). So, b/c this scenario is so unbearable, I've tried to prepare myself for such a day by guarding against the mistakes that could be my undoing.

Now before I begin, a nod to my female compatriots. I realize that my concerns and safeguards are of no use to your kind, as you've been cursed w/ a lack of..."mobility" when it comes to relieving oneself. Please understand that I do not take my blessings for granted.

As with the zombies, I am ever-vigilant in my ablutions. When in public restroom stalls, I'll triple-check the door's latch to be sure that, short of some maniac hell-bent on using my stall, the door will hold fast. When at a friend's house, I'll make sure the lock works. But my approach takes a more reactive stance. B/c the one time someone tries the door I know is locked is the one time that lock will fail. I must be ready for the worst-case scenario. The Day After Tomorrow or 2012 of bathroom contingencies, if you will.

When standing and while using someone's restroom, I do my best to face away from the door. That way, even if interrupted, I'm protected from the prying eyes of whatever dummy thought it was ok to barge into an occupied bathroom. It's a little weird getting at the toilet from a side-angle, but I've managed it over the years.

In smaller bathrooms where the toilet's right next to the door, I'll take a wide stance and wedge the side of my shoe against the door. Earlier in life, I discovered that shoe's make an excellent doorstop, particularly when all my 155 lbs. is backing it up. Sure, if somebody body-slammed the door it might put a small glitch into my targeting system, but that's a fair risk compared to the horrors of being discovered mid-stream. Besides, there're always cleaning products under bathroom sinks; I could deal w/ the aftermath in a sterile manner.

But what takes the cake is a true feat in male resourcefulness already championed by man's best friend, the dog. For yes indeed, I have practiced for the day when I forget my prior precautions, being perhaps preoccupied with emptying a too-full bladder. When that dark day comes, there will be no more protection for me than what I can do in the blink of an eye - raise a leg to shield what counts. That's right: I've practiced peeing while balancing on one leg. The going's been tough; I can't say I enjoy the challenge. But necessity is the mother of invention, and this skill is one of the more-pregnant mother's of an idea I've ever had.

I might look weird to whoever walked in on me, but what're they gonna' say? Who do you think'd come out on top in that conversation?

THEM: "...why are you peeing on one leg?!"

YOU: "'Cause you're watching." OR "Why are you watching?" OR "Why aren't you?"

THEM: "..." OR "..." OR "..."

There's another scenario I fear in the bathroom - ladies, I believe we can empathize with each other here: Realizing there's no toilet paper after it's, well...too late. In the privacy of your own, empty home, this isn't the worst problem. You may look ridiculous, but hobbling over to a nearby closet is certainly better than doing so before an unprepared audience (or any audience, for that matter). Heaven forbid there's no TP in the whole house. But even then, you could make a call if you had too. Maybe grab some napkins or other soft, paper good.

But think about the alternative. What's worse than no TP? No TP in a public restroom. Yeah, I hear you. Exactly. You're up a creek (literally). I'm not gonna' lie: If I'm in a public restroom and have just sat down and realized there's nothing in the dispenser, I'm gonna' rocket off'a that seat like a bat out of hell. I do not want that problem, and neither do you.

Call me paranoid if you like; I certainly do. But I can sleep better at night and stand confidently in front of my toilet b/c I know that I'm safe. My paranoia, however unorthodox, protects me.

The Office of Best Friend

Over the past few months, the phrase "so-and-so's best friend" has come my way, reminding me of times long past where it was such a big deal to be someone's best friend. There're different terms for it now - things like BF's or BFF's and such - but those are used in an informal, often joking or offhanded fashion. To be a "best friend" is to be set aside; a cut above. You know what I'm talkin' about b/c, when someone goes around calling everyone his best friend, you feel that the term is being used incorrectly.

I'm sure it has something to do with how I grew up in elementary school: the cliques and drama that best-friendship elicited from me and the kids I went to school with. Looking back, it all seems so petty. Inevitably, if you're not the best friend, you must ponder the question of why: why aren't you the best friend? And while I'm sure you've got a good head on your shoulders, playing w/ that question must be done w/ care. Taken too far, feelings of inferiority, bitterness, and frustration could manifest in ways you never wanted and that aren't needed. To flip things around, if you are the best friend, you know there's something about you that must set you apart. Makes you different. Better. It's probably not anything to put a "hitch in yer get-a-long", but you know it's there.

It is for this reason that I don't like being someone's best friend. Not that I don't appreciate and respect the reasons why someone might say "you're my best friend" or "you're his best friend" - I get it. But I feel a kind'f pressure when you say that, probably b/c I don't adhere to the best friend paradigm. So when you throw "best friend" at me, I don't know how to reciprocate. Or how much. Or if it's even necessary. Should I just keep doin' what I'm doin'?

Of course, these are silly questions. Friendships aren't supposed to be complicated like that. At least, not ideally. I'll give you that; I'm being a little paranoid.

But I don't like it.

I don't like the distinction it creates. The divide it puts between other friends, even if no one talks about it. Even barring all that, it makes me uncomfortable to select or be selected for best-friend presidency. I don't want that pressure. I don't want to screw it up, I'll admit. Losing that nice title and fancy "best friend" name tag: that hurts.

Choosing a best man for the wedding was difficult for me. Sure, I knew who it'd be. It wasn't the figuring-it-out that stood in my way, but the fact that I's setting someone apart from the rest. My decision wavered every now and then, weighing and measuring the merits of each guy I knew'd be in the wedding party. Who was the best of them all? I'm comfortable w/ my decision, but it was...an awkward experience to go through.

No. Best friends aren't for me. Good friends are. Close friends. You can have bunches of those, and they can come and go as time goes by in your life. You'll know the good ones b/c, when the time comes after you've drifted apart, the bonds you made w/ each other will be strong enough to renew a friendship after an arbitrary dry spell. I can share different things w/ close friends - w/ each one of them. They're each close to me for different reasons, and I can see and appreciate that.

Why must you choose? Who says you can't have a couple dear friends, all kept at the same distance but at different points around you?

My friendships have more "give" to them, I think. It's easier to cultivate these kinds of friends b/c I'm not being so selective: I can surround myself w/ a larger (though not huge) group of people who I know care about me. To put it in perspective: I could have a cozy dinner in my apartment w/ these people and it wouldn't get too stuffy. Each of them touches a different, equally-important-to-me aspect of my life; having all of them around me gives a very well-rounded feel to my social circle.

If you have read this and suddenly feel guilty for having glom'd me into some "best friend" category, don't. Really. This is not an indictment against your choices and where you've placed me in the hierarchy of your life. As I said earlier, I still respect and deeply appreciate being whatever friend you've decided I can be to you. This has been more about how I see my friends and an explanation, if you've ever wondered, of why I refrain from giving the office of best friend away.

The Needs of the Many

It is a generally accepted, utilitarian ideal: the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. Or, in my case, the one. And so it's been that, when given an opportunity, I go above and beyond to try and meet the needs of others around me, often w/o regard for myself. This isn't some play for sympathy or a dose of Jewish Guilt. I do not profess to consider others above myself, nor is addressing someone's needs my only calling in life. Rather, I just felt like sharing this. (That's what a blog's for, right?).

Somewhere along the line in college, I decided I wanted to be a "good listener". This stemmed out of a desire to acquire all those nice, Christian qualities that all the good kids have. If I could do one thing right, I wanted to be able to listen. Or, more generically, to see what someone needed and allow them the space and grace to get it. A lot of the time, I see people with an overabundant need to talk. About their life, their stress, their problems - you'd surprise yourself if you stopped to notice how much people need to just talk. By "talk", I don't really mean an equally-two-way conversation. At least, not in this context. There are times when people just need another, friendly human being to bounce their thoughts off of.

With my knowledge came the realization that I wasn't half-bad at shutting up. I really, sincerely enjoy being available for other people. It's something I can do to serve my friends and V. So I learned to listen. To see someone in the middle of verbally processing through "something" and to get out of the way. To be quite.

To be still.

But while working on that, there came a cost. An imperfection to my strategy, if you will. In learning to address the needs of others, I developed feelings of guilt for speaking up. For voicing my opinion. For asserting that, for once, I needed to talk. Not rant, argue, or yell. Just...talk. But b/c I's trying to be so attentive to the people around me, it seemed wrong to inject myself into the equation like that.

When I'm hanging out w/ friends, if I talk too much or otherwise dominate our current social interaction, I feel guilty. Like Vince, I feel a nearly insurmountable desire to apologize for hogging..."it". For implying that I somehow deserved to take up people's time so selfishly.

I s'pose it's like what a lot of people feel about telling other people about their problems. It's easier to let somebody else confide in you than vice-versa. You're less vulnerable that way. Less needy. Less of a burden. And above all else, nobody wants to be a burden. And justifiably so. In general, we don't want to be the kind of person who drags others down. (At least, I don't).

Sometimes, I need to talk. A lot. To just say stuff. Anything, really. But those urges - needs - come at the most inopportune and inconvenient times: when it's most difficult to speak up, or when I'm in the middle of listening to somebody else go through the same thing. I feel bad for wanting to be served; for thinking that I "deserve" thought and consideration from those around me. What's it matter? Shouldn't I just fine w/o it, in spite of the fact that I willingly render such services on a daily basis?

What's really frustrating is when I don't know what I want to say. When there's this great desire to speak, but the words won't come. It's the most frustrating illustration of my lack of adequate communication skills.

I guess it comes down to the age old problem I have w/ letting others into the stuff in my life. I don't want to be someone else's problem, especially because I'm so much better at taking on everyone else's. They've got enough to deal with, right? But after a while, it wears me down. And I've no one willing to share the load. No one who'll volunteer, anyway. Sure, there're people who'll listen. But no one who'll do it of their on volition: I'm the proactive one in these interactions. That, in and of itself, is its own weight on my shoulders.

TFK

---

Since I just bought their most recent album, it seemed inspiring to play a round of TGGEP. The letters were just begging to be used.

---

Results

• Thoroughly Fed Kangaroo
• Terrible, Feral Kantus
• Their First Kitchen
• Thousands [of] Free Kittens
• Three Flaming Kittens
• That Ferryman: Kill
• Troubling Ferret Knowledge
• Too-Furry Kite
• Travis' Favorite Kidnapper
• [Mista'] T's Fan Kids

Examples

"Elliott's TFK is huge. It can hardly walk anymore, let alone jump"

"It's TFK. How cute."

"V nearly burst w/ excitement when I told her about the TFK the pound was giving away."

Life's Inexorable Train

Analogies aren't always easy to cook up. This topic has been mulling around in my head all week, and a recent conversation I had helped to bring out the heart of my thoughts. To relate how I feel, I'd like to pose the question: how hard do you think it'd be to stop a train? It's impossible! Even other trains struggle with it! Such mass and speed isn't stopped; you work around it. You stand on the side and watch the thing barrel by. Even if the monolith-on-wheels is racing a toddler down the tracks, you couldn't stop it.

Like a train, I feel like my life has moved forward w/o my consent or even an nod of acknowledgement in my direction. Though, to make the comparison more appropriate, I s'pose I'd be on the train; I get to watch the things around me flip by, b/c there's no way I can stop.

I first got to thinking about this on my most recent visit to SLO. It wasn't a purely leisure trip as some of my other southerly sojourns: I spent all of Friday working from home in V's condo. The following day I ran around w/ Mom scouting out stuff for the wedding. But despite the hustle and bustle, I tried to make time to hang out w/ my friends. I was doing what I'm learning to do best: to live in the margins.

But at a lunch I had w/ two particular friends, it became apparent to me that my efforts were but toothpicks before the inexorable pace that my life has taken.

Back in my 3rd year of college, I had to bid [a temporary] farewell to my friend Bobby. Bobby meant a lot to me, and it was difficult and new to adjust to living college w/o his input into my life. But for the first couple of months afterwards, he made a couple trips down to SLO to visit. To reconnect w/ the friends he still had in the area. And while I never got that much of his attention (a lot of people tend to pull at you when you go back), it was always nice to see him. I knew it wasn't meant to last, but I couldn't help but entertain the thought. Y'know what I'm talking about:

"They'll come down every now and then. At least on a semi-regular basis. I'll still see him/her. Not everything will change. I can still keep the familiar."

But you know that's not the truth. And sure enough, after about 6 months, we didn't hear much more from Bobby. The guy bought a house up in the Bay, had a killer job as a software engineer, and attended a stellar church in the Bay. It was to be expected, and I didn't feel at all slighted when we fell out of touch.

In my mind, I didn't want that to happen. When I graduated, I wanted to maintain the relationships that mattered to me. Make the calls. Put out the effort. Not lose what was important to me: my friends. You see, I don't have much of a "family". I have a Mom, and that's about it. The rest are socially or geographically distant. While some of them are really great people, I never grew up with them: I have no real background w/ which to base a long-standing relationship. But my friends - they're what I hold onto. They've weathered life with me. They're where I invest. Where I pour my attention, concern, and gifts. Without my friends, I'm just...alone.

Thusly situated 200+ miles away from SLO, I geared up to keep in touch. I could feel this urge to try and go deep with my friends: to spend the brainpower w/ them that school and projects didn't allow. And for a while, it worked. It really did. When I reached out, they responded. When we talked, we talked long; we shared lots. When I completed another week of work, I could look back and remember the "check-ins" I'd made - the points of contact with my former life that comforted me; kept me grounded.

Chugga-chugga-chugga

At that lunch, life's train seemed to be going faster than I expected. Instead of picking things up where we left up, there was just...well, nothing to touch on. We just...sat. Removed as I am from their lives, I couldn't connect with them. I can't connect with them. At least, not like I'm used to.

I realized just how much my life up here has taken root, and how much I've left behind in SLO. I work 9a-6p (sometimes 7p or 8p), Mon-Fri. I come home. I eat. I sleep. I start over. My life isn't chalk-full of the eccentricities and spontaneity that their college-life provides. The battle to keep up with them is an uphill battle fought backwards, in the rain, at night, blindfolded. And I know I'm losing ground.

Maintaining relationships from distance puts strain on the relationship. I've noticed the burden it puts on me and V: I need to see her. To be able to communicate w/ her in more ways than just a digital signal. With my friends, I've lost the commonality with which we built our interactions.

Without realizing it, I've "moved on". The next "stage" is here, and I had to take care of it. It was meant to happen and natural, just like when Bobby faded away. For me, it just didn't feel like a fade. I'd fallen asleep on the train and a sudden bump in the clickity-clack of those steel wheels on polished rails had jolted me awake to find myself 200 miles away from where I'd fallen asleep.

Perhaps the take away is to rely more on God to provide the stability in my life that I need. After all, it's a great illustration of how life can get away from me, how I'm not in control, and how it's very easy for my environment to change and I have to adjust to something new. God's not gonna' go anywhere, right? He's always right where I need Him; right next to me. Maybe that's where the investment really needs to go.

Cue TFK.

Craving Organization

In writing this blog, I realized how difficult it's becoming for me to decide what "label" should go with a particular blog post. "Is this post really about me, or zombies," I ask myself. "What about meta-zombies"?

I'm big into organization. Everything around me needs to have some "place" it belongs to. That's where my computer goes; where my laundry goes; where all my files go; how my finances are to be organized. Even clothes, the more "messy" things in life, have a "spot" I throw them to. Back in college, it was the foot of my bed and the couch. (Vince and Kev would remember). It might have looked disorderly, but there was an organization and cleanliness to it that worked quite well. Jackets tended to pile up on the couch, where they could be easily grabbed while you were walking out the door. Pants and shirts accumulated on the bed, which made it easy to grab them when I went to take my morning shower. The system worked.

This is one of the reasons why I hardly ever decorate. Room/wall accessories have no real...place. They're supposed to be arbitrarily cutesy by some standard unknown to me. You should've seen my room in PCV my sophomore year. Four white walls. All bare and devoid of decor or color. Trust me, it looked pretty depressing. Of course, I didn't mind, but I totally understood V when she decried my lack of taste in room accommodations.

I guess decorating just isn't my thing. 

But organization sure is. It got to the point where someone asked what race I was. Yes, really. It happened while I's running tech for IV, where everything has to be done/wrapped/turned on just right or something will break. The conversation was:

"What race are you?"

"Uh...white?"

"Oh. No, I mean...well, it's just that some cultures really value organization and stuff."

Now, I'm not the most knowledgeable guy when it comes to culture, society, and race. But...a race that's known for its organizational skills? Really? Wouldn't I have noticed how one particular race happened to have all the secretary jobs. 

Maybe it's because the Jewish side of me is also Russian, and Tetris was originally a Russian puzzle game. Man, I'm a whiz at that. And even when I have my bad days in-game, I'll never be beat when it comes to packing a car. Back when I worked at VONS, I was in my prime. I's burnin' it up. I knew exactly how many paper-in-plastic "units" could fit in a single cart. When I saw groceries comin' down the conveyor belt, I managed a storm of questions in my head about what should go with what. (In general, don't put the Drano w/ the bad seal in w/ the baby formula). I rejoiced at the chance to help customers to their car; I reveled in the skill it took to bend space-time to get all those groceries in one trunk. 

I am an organizational god. 

Sometimes, whilst coding, I'll hit the programmer's equivalent to writers block. Why? Because I can't get around this problem: "This shouldn't go here, but it's an exponentially larger amount of work to fix it. I don't have the time to refactor it, but I don't want to perpetuate poor coding standards." It's a terrible dilemma. I'm just glad most of the world doesn't have to carry the burdens we software engineers do.

When I reorganized my music collection, there was no other compelling reason than "It's not as organized as I want it." (To be fair, my music was a mess. I'd been tossing all sorts of files, all w/ terribly encoded meta data, into one folder. It was terrible to look at). So I kicked down that door and laid down the law. Now - you guessed it - I've got a program to do it for me. Whenever I drop new music into the folder, it can kick into gear and put my songs exactly where I want them. Every time. No worrying. 

People who read this probably didn't know me in high school. But those in college know how I spiked my hair for many years. That came out of a long-standing tradition I started all the way back in 5th grade. Vince will agree with me on the reason why: b/c I wanted my hair to look exactly the way I wanted it to, and I wanted it to stay that way all day. Ever notice how spiked-hair-people don't want you touching their head? And when you try and sneak up on them to do it, it's almost like they can sense you coming? Yeah, that's organization at work. They've got it just right. Just the way they want it. We don't want you and your hands comin' in and mussing things up. 

But, you might note that I no longer spike my hair. Where is my precious organization. Fair point. Now, I just shave it all off. It's all the control of spiking my hair without the product, time in the morning, and...well, hair. (But at least V is more at peace w/ it than my spikes. She might now admit it, but she did not like my pointy head). 

So there's no excuse any more. You know someone who can organize anything. Rooms, cars, desks, relationships: you name it, I can be sure to rip it apart and put it back better. 

When We Were Overrun

I can't tell you how it happened. When you've been running for your life, non-stop, for 30 hours, sleep has a way of conquering your will and forcing you into one of those coma-sleeps; the ones that, while you're dreaming, feel like forever but, when you wake up, feel like a flickering moment. So I was out cold on the floor, my gear and backpack my a pillow instead of the concrete and rubble scattered around me. It must've taken Dominic a while to actually rouse me; I only caught the last part of his plea to wake up. Still, it was enough. 

"...comi-...-verrun us!"

By the time the bangs, moans, and the unmistakable presence of The Horde filtered through my grogginess, I was on my feet and slinging my backpack onto my shoulders. 

I knew it had been a mistake to hole-up in a shack like this: rickety walls, small windows, and a single door allowing egress into and out of our small haven. It had seemed enough at the time, but I'd've had a different opinion had I been in my right state of mind when we bedded down. 

As it was, we had to get out. The door wasn't an option: I could already hear the hinges straining under the weight of dozens of eager, crazed bodies pushing against it. We didn't have long. Dominic made quick work of the butt of my rifle, smashing in the window opposite the entrance. In one smooth motion, he was out the window and into the street. Placing my heel on the broken pane, I vaulted up and after him out of the building. But before I was clear, my pack snagged on the remaining pieces of glass. Not only caught, I was wedged in place by it all: both pack and I couldn't make it through the window. Because I'd jumped through, I didn't have a lot of leverage to wiggle out. I was thoroughly stuck.

Without word or signal, Dom took out his knife. With one hand, he slashed at the shoulder straps holding the pack onto me. With his other, he grabbed my collar and yanked me out of the window. We left the pack and ran down the street - I'd rather be alive and hungry than something's dinner.

Aside from the sound of our footsteps frantically beating against the asphalt and our steady breaths, neither of us made a sound. That was the key to surviving ordeals like this: you had to be able to work together without making much noise. Even the slightest shout could alert one of them. And once one of them caught our scent, the whole Hoard would be bearing down on us. 

I and Dom - we'd been at this for a while. Running, anyway. We'd developed a sixth sense for looking out for each other. We were never ones to go crusading against these things. We just wanted to survive. And with each other, we'd done just that. We'd hopped from town to town, avoiding traveling hordes of undead whenever we found them. When forced into an encounter, we kept our heads together. We set traps, built decoys, whittled down a small herd by luring stragglers away; whatever we had to do to stay safe and breathing. When we could, we salvaged materials for weapons and clothes. Everything we had we'd built together. 

Dom was much heavier than I was, but not in a zombie-bait kind of way. If something needed breaking, lifting, or blunt-force-bashing, Dom was the guy to do it. The man was strong. He was decisive too - an invaluable quality when all you've time to do is take a few breaths. Yet, he always seemed to defer to my judgement on more long-term decisions: where to find food, how to avoid another herd, where we'd bed down for the night, etc. It made for an easy relationship. 

The sky was nearing dusk, so I couldn't be sure how long I'd been out; when I'd gone to bed, it had looked much the same. Had it been a hour? A day? More? It didn't really matter: we needed some place to hide before we lost daylight. If we couldn't...well, I didn't want to think about that. With The Hoard so close, a flashlight would be akin to suicide. Our best chance was to get out of town and hide; wait for the herd to pass. 

We ducked into alleys and ran down deserted streets, always keeping our heads below eye-level. When we could, we ran behind cover. So long as The Hoard didn't get line-of-sight on us, we had the advantage. 

While my feet were pounding the pavement, my head was trying to pound out a way to get us out of this mess. I no idea how big the herd was. Obviously, they could overrun that shack, so...at least 30? I checked my cargo pockets for anything that hadn't been in the gear we'd lost. With relish, I grasped a full clip of ammo in my right-leg pocket. Combined with what was already in the rifle, we had around 20 rounds. But even if I'd had a hundred rounds, I wouldn't dream of taking down a Hoard like this. At least not now. With time and planning, we'd taken down bigger forces than what was chasing us now. But we were panicked and on the run. Worse yet, I had no idea if there were other undead nearby. The sound of gunfire would quickly attract more than we could handle.

We passed dozens of abandoned vehicles, but that was a pipe dream. Even if we could get one started, there'd be no chance of navigating the congested and rubble-ridden roads with any modicum of speed. We could hide in a van or bus, but that solution was equally problematic: one lucky Walker would bring the whole Hoard on us. In a car, we'd have no escape route. And all this didn't consider if we would set off a car alarm. 

No cars. 

A roof would work. So long as we weren't seen getting there, the Hoard would innocently pass us by without a second thought. The key was finding a building with roof access on the outside; we didn't have time to clear a building of any ambling undead waiting for us. Apartment fire escapes were perfect, but I hadn't seen any yet. 

So we kept jogging. Dom kept eyes up front while I checked our tail for signs of the undead.

But when we turned a corner to run down a major street of the city, all my plans went to hell. 

"Shit."

We called them "potatoes", taken from the human "couch potato". These things would stand in the exact same spot for days or even months until some stimulus - like us - prompted them to move. They often came in large groups - this a couple-dozen strong. Ones like this would be more animated at the thought of a meal, as they'd been standing there for god-knew how long without any form of "food". In unison, they all looked up from their staring contest with the ground: zillions of dry, rotted eyes bearing down on us.  

Keep running.

We turned tail and went back the way we'd come. If we were fast enough, we could double-back on the hoard already chasing us. With a little luck, we could go in the opposite direction and trick our pursuers.

When we rounded the corner to retreat, that sinking feeling in my gut got a lot heavier: There, down the road we'd come, was another Hoard - likely the one that'd originally overrun us. My initial estimate had been a bit zealous: I judged there size to be more around 20-strong. While a heartening and ironic thought - that I'd been wrong - it didn't do us much good. 

I drew the rifle out of Dom's hands as we both did an about-face. I had the extra clip, and we both knew I was a better shot. We turned again down the only road still undead-free and ran for it. 

A large, office-like building came into view with the title "Informatica" on it - Wikipedia's HQ. (They ran run the world's largest, free, and respected information source. At least, back when any of that mattered). Lots of smaller, tightly packed offices and warehouse-type buildings surrounded it. If we could find a building with a ladder, we'd be golden: all these closely-built structures would make it easy to move around the city without fear of running into the undead. I glanced over at Dom. With my free hand, I signed to him:

Split up.

He nodded back and signed his interpretation of my plan:

Find roof. Wait.

We were agreed. Dom continued straight down the road while I took a left at the corner of the Informatica building.

Most people would call us crazy. You're never supposed to split up, right? People in the woods in horror flicks do it all the time, and it never works out for them. But this was different. The undead might be mindless, but they behave in predictable ways. They'll always go after a single target. When that target splits, they tend to all go after one of the two. Sure, a couple stragglers might break away from the group and go after the other. But I and Dom could handle half-a-dozen zombies on our own. It was also easier to give the horde the slip on my own. There are a whole lot more places one person can fit into that two people can't. 

Yes, there were risks. But we'd done this before. If it didn't work, well...what else could we have done? I and Dom had to do what we knew could work: we weren't at the chance-taking point. Not yet. 

I ducked behind a van and peeked back down the road. They were following Dom. While I battled mixed emotions about this, a few stumbling walkers caught sight of me and peeled off of the main surge of undead. Still conflicted about Dom's predicament, I turned and kept running. I'd deal with my feelings after we were safe and out of reach. 

With no real route planned, I turned into a nearby alley. It was a dead end, but another narrow road branched from it and continued. I followed it. Another dead end with another, single alley leading away. I continued on, growing more nervous all the time. So far, there was no exit to this path: Just more alleys. In a few moments, my pursuers would enter the alley where I had. If I didn't find an exit, I'd be trapped, with no way out but through the undead. I shuddered at the thought and kept jogging. 

Then, Chance threw me a curve. 

My alley dead-ended for good: I had no where else to go. In the distance, I could here shuffling feet and scratchy gasps. I was trapped. But at the end of the alley lay my salvation: a fire escape. The ladder itself was well out of reach, but a dumpster stood not too far from it. I'd vault the dumpster, climb the ladder, and be safe and out of immediate danger. 

If it were so easy. 

I shouldered my rifle and leaned against the dumpster. As I bent to the task of pushing, it became very apparent that this was not a one-person job. The wheels were stiff and rusted from disuse. Debris was littered around it. The thing must've been sitting here for ages. Even if I had the strength, I'd need time to clear a path to push. But time was what I had very little of left.

Adrenalin and fear were pounding in my heart. I flirted with the idea of hiding in the dumpster, but that had worse prospects than a car. They knew I was here: they'd come knocking eventually. I had to keep my cool; had to think. If I couldn't move this dumpster, I'd have to find some other way out. But there wasn't another way out. This was it. 

Maybe that's why they called it a dead end. 

Behind me, I heard the distinct scuff of shoe on concrete. The excited rasping of a dry, rotted throat sent chills up my spine. Then I heard the moans: the one eerie sign that makes you wonder if they're really fully dead. They're pretty quite when they're on their own. But when there's prey in sight - when dinner's just a few stumbling steps away - they moan. Constant, wailing, deep, throaty: they can go on for days without stopping. It can drive people mad. It's why you don't employ siege tactics: the psychological toll is too high for people. 

The lump in my throat nearly choked the life out of me before they could. I'd been in scrapes like this before, but I'd never gotten used to the paralyzing fear. I'd seen men that had: hard men without morals or feelings. I'd seen what living in war against these things had done to people. I knew what it would do to me - if I survived, anyway. But I couldn't stop the shaking. I couldn't move. I knew they were right behind me: any moment, I'd feel a hand pull me down while black and gore-filled teeth devoured me. My last moments would be the conscious awareness that I was being eaten.

No. I wanted to survive. To live. I had to force myself past the fear. Forget the hopelessness. If I was going to do this, I needed to focus. 

With trembling hands, I slid my rifle's strap off my arm. I swallowed hard, trying my best to take steady, deep breaths, and placed the butt of the rifle against my shoulder. 

One...two...three...Turn.

Bam. Zombie.