Ah, the apocalypse, so exciting, so challenging, so very very messy when it comes to your carefully chosen outfits. All that blood and guts and gunpowder residue and not a dry-cleaners in sight.
But don’t let that stop you dressing to kill, not when there’s these babies to wear!
Conveniently pre-blood-splattered, and with a heel that can poke someone’s eye out, these shoes are perfect for the post-apoc night out.
by The Shloo
Shoot to kill and can ‘em up.
That’s it in a nutshell. There are few philosophies smarter because when the world’s getting its apocalypse on you have few other choices. Best you get your head round that from the get-go.
I started shooting when I was eight years old. Air rifles mainly, but by ten I was shit-hot with a bow and arrow. Mum always said they’d make the best weapon anyway – when the bullets run out, who’s going to be making new ones? Arrows, on the other hand, are relatively easy to make. I can shape a bow out of a piece of willow – or pretty much any tree with enough bend in it – in less than three minutes. A clutch of arrows will take me another five, tops. Robin Hood would weep at the skill in my fingers.
And I never miss.
Our bunker’s pretty sweet. There’s a room full of bunk beds that are more comfortable than they look, a pretty well-equipped kitchen, a library, a bathroom, a canning room – my Mum’s mantra is ‘waste not want not’ – and a big communal living area. Dad and Zeke worked hard and it paid off. Speaking of Zeke, my brother and I were both trained in and for almost anything you can imagine: hand-to-hand combat, gas attacks, nuclear fallout, weapon making, foraging, first aid – you name it, we went over it. Sewing’s my weak point, truth be told, but at least I’ve stopped sewing stuff to my jeans and Mum says I sew a pretty strong stitch. That’s what matters.
Of course, I’ve not had what you might call a normal life.
Hardly a surprise, is it? Survivalists? Maybe, but we call ourselves “sensible” – what else would you call those not blind to the inevitable? I was picked on sometimes at school, but after the suspension – and the scrum half’s snapped wrist (thanks Dad, for those self-defence drills) – I was left alone. I didn’t go to dances, never been for a sleepover, never even sat with anyone else for lunch. I didn’t get to do any of that ‘normal’ stuff. Getting attached to people only makes it harder in the long run. It would have made me sad once (I’ve got hormones and hopes just like anyone else), but you’ve got to focus on what’s important.
To hell with normal anyway!
Is it normal to sit and wait for Johnny Mutant to come eat your brains? To wait while the nuclear fallout burns through your guts and your brain spills out the bottom of your spine? To pretend there’s hope, that someone out there’s coming to save you? They’re not, y’know. If you don’t want to end up a splatter-fest of ex-human, then you’d better get wise.
There’s no time for frills and fancy, there’s only one prize and that’s life – or at the very least dying on your own terms. I’m old enough to know that. The future is about survival. It’s all it’s ever about. I wised up to that the day I heard Dad telling Zeke that me and Mum were the weak link, that we were the ones who would most likely slow them down and that if he needed to get rid of us, he wouldn’t hesitate. I didn’t understand. I was a good learner, better than Zeke who was a lazy crumb. I was better with a bow and arrow and I could climb a tree in half the time he could. Just because he could dig earth for longer, I was the dead weight? Like digging a hole and carrying heavy stuff makes the difference when the chips are down? As far as I could see, the difference that marked us out in Dad’s mind was that I was a girl and Zeke was a boy – his boy. I was eleven years old and from that day on I hated my Dad, hated him for marking me out as mattering less because I’m a girl, for seeing me as an albatross and not an asset. It was also the day I decided one thing –
I wasn’t going to be left behind. You shouldn’t be either.
Ironic really that Dad was the first to get bit. I had to shoot him; Zeke froze like he’d learned nothing all those years. Typical. So I shot my Dad in the head and then when Zeke got violent a couple of months later – the isolation got to him bad – and went all frothing-at-the-mouth crazy, I shot him too. If he hadn’t tried for the door I wouldn’t have had to do it. We don’t know what’s out there. Still, at least his death won’t be in vain. Mum can pickle anything and what’s left goes in the cans.
So that was the last of our bullets. Mum and me? We won’t need them, we’re prepared.
We are chuffed to have the one and only Dana Fredsti dropping by today as a part of the big PLAGUE TOWN blog tour; remember, you have a chance to get a zombie named after you. See the Titan Books site for details. Dana writes mysteries and romance as well as this new kick ass series: she’s got something for every reader!
Plague Town Pandemic Tour: Stop 7
A zombie virus of guest articles, Q&As and excepts from new urban fantasy novel, Plague Town, will be infecting websites, blogs and social media accounts across the globe to offer readers the chance to win a signed copy of Plague Town and have a character named after them in the next novel in the series!
Apocalypse Girls are the seventh stop on the ‘Plague Town Pandemic Tour’.
Collect the fifth word hidden in CAPS at the end of this article along with a sequence of eight others on blogs and websites outlined in the link below; tweet the sentence you’ve discovered to @TitanBooks and @zhadi1 with #PlagueTown before April 23rd.
Q: Are you ready for the apocalypse?
Well, we have a pretty decent earthquake kit, lots of bottled water (in fact, I think I’ll pick up another case because between me, Dave and the cats, we go through a lot of water), a good supply of wine (very important!), and a pretty defensible house other than the master bedroom window. And even that could be fortified. We also have weapons and know how to use ‘em. I think the only shortages would be cat food, cat litter and toilet paper if we were holed up for a long time. So better lay in a better supply of both of those too! Mentally and emotionally, I don’t think people are ever ready until something catastrophic actually happens. I’m fairly pragmatic so I like to think I’d deal with things without going catatonic or crazy.
Q: What do you think belongs in a bug out bag?
Unless I can fit all my cats, nothing. I won’t be bugging out ’cause I have a fairly defensible setup here at home… and I would not be able to live with myself if I left my cats behind. And I have a few too many to fit in a bag.
Q: What are your favourite end of the world stories?
Swann Song, The Stand, Dawn/Day of the Dead (original), the Autumn Series by David Moody, Dust and Decay by Jonathan Maberry. Solarbabies (because yes, it IS so bad… and the best paved post-apoc landscape evah) World War Z… and so many more!
Q: How important are martial arts skills to survival after the apocalypse?
Training in martial arts gives a person a sense of their own body. I sucked at ballet until I studied karate for a few years, and suddenly my body and how it worked made sense. With that kind of control and understanding, a lot of other physical activities were opened up to me. And I felt more confident in general. So… I’d say very important if just for a sense of how to use one’s body as a weapon and to have enough confidence to fight for survival. If you’re really damn good, you’ll be able to defend yourself against those inevitable rapacious biker gang/religious zealot group/etc. as well as keep those stinky flesh-eaters off your ass.
Q: What kind of role model does Ashley Parker offer to GGSA fans? Strengths? Weaknesses?
She will not give up and she’s ethical. She does NOT have a tramp stamp crawling out of her butt crack. She keeps a sense of humor as much as possible and won’t put up with gratuitous crap from anyone. I love her empathy. That, however, is both a strength and a weakness.
Q: How important is a sense of humour for survival?
For me? Essential. Without it, life is bleak and crappy . If you can’t find humor in adversity, especially when that adversity is going to be a pretty constant companion for a long damn time… you might as well just kill yourself or become a Goth.
Q: What’s your motto for the coming apocalypse?
Lock and load. And go back for the cats.
A delight, as always Ms F! Here’s a snippet for your reading preview pleasure, apocalypse fans:
Josh and Jason had suffered less mutilation than Maggie. They traveled with her, some atavistic bond keeping them near even though their corpses were capable of moving much more quickly.
They were all hungry. Their last meal had been a week ago when they’d stumbled across one of the houses scattered through the mountains above Redwood Grove. There had only been one skinny teenager at home when they’d arrived, and by the time the three had eaten their fill, all the reanimated remains could do was flop and wriggle about on the floor.
Still their hunger persisted.
The sound of motors turned the trio towards a break in the trees. Vehicles painted in forest camouflage rumbled by on the road below.
Two weeks stumbling through dense forests with only the occasional meal had taken its toll on Maggie, and she quickly fell behind as Josh and Jason moved with a swift, single-minded purpose down a steeply graded hill that ended in a sheer drop-off. Neither zombie had the coordination stop from tumbling over the edge to the rock-strewn canyon below. Josh’s limbs shattered while Jason got lucky and fell on what used to be his father, rolling off without damage. Driven by mindless appetite, he slowly got to his feet and lurched off into the forest, leaving Josh to writhe hungrily on the ground.
Meanwhile Maggie had veered off in a different direction as the sound of trucks moved off into the distance. Lights shone down below the tree line.
Lights meant food…
CODE WORD 7: WAKING
For full details of the tour and terms and conditions visit:
Plague Town by Dana Fredsti is published by Titan Books, 20th April, £7.99.
I have to say yes. Why? Well to put it simply, you (women, unless something kills all the men) will be the considered weak and useless, unless it’s on your back or cooking and cleaning. At humanity’s best, it’s still a very sexist place to be. So why not use what we were born with a.k.a. boobs, legs and butts.
Let’s talk about what we know. Men are genetically disposed to boobs, legs and butts, they can’t help but stop and stare at the woman walking on the sidewalk or trip over themselves to help a pretty lady. They are mostly ruled by their bottom brain. Not news to me, but some women out there need to know that no matter how you look now, when the population is cut by 80% even the big girls will get love.
Now looking good can also save your life. How you ask? Well lets see. A bad man won’t think twice to kill a dirt stinky person begging for their life. But, if you take that same woman clean her up and make her look good and hold her head up high. He can’t but respect that and may even not kill her right away. (Which will be his downfall, girls kill with a smile.) All you need is time. Time to think of how to get out of whatever situation you’re in or to persuade the other party in your favor. I vote to be killed them on upon their hesitation unless you can better use them to your own means.
I have always told myself I will never look like that hag on the movies that is begging for her life. She had yellow teeth and bad hair and was running ( and failing) from a biker gang bent on of raping and pillaging. NO SIR! I will be the one standing my ground, looking good and making those bikers worship me for the goddess that I am. And if not I will be planing a way distract and runaway to live another day. So remember, looking good can either save your life or help make you one, be prepared for either.