you're too young & eager to love

More Fab and Zombie apocalypse goodness. Even though this is oldish.

Although this is less about zombies and more about what it would be like to cope in that situation. Reference to Sasha's character, that's supposed to eventually gallivant along with Fab.


There is no seventy-fourth street.

Just rubble, and if it wasn’t so dangerous you would like to walk those old steps. There used to be buildings and vehicles and those bushes that attracted butterflies. A hotdog vendor on the corner would always you give free chips if you gave him one of your Marlboros.

There aren’t many cigarettes left either. If someone had told you that one day the undead would run (not walk) and destroy civilizations, you would have stocked up on cigarettes. Cartons upon cartons. And tampons. You used to be embarrassed whenever that week out of the month arrived, trudging to the grocery store or neighborhood 7-11 to buy a little pink box. You miss that the only thing you had to worry about back then was the possible judgment in the clerk’s eyes. Now, navigating a Farm Fresh is basically suicide.

You learn to take in balk. A few months ago, you kind of thought it was stealing (back when you still hoped the government was going to prevail) and you wouldn’t have enough money to pay for all the items you stashed hurriedly into your over-sized purse. You’re pretty sure most storeowners are currently dead (or turned) so you don’t feel guilty. Besides, you still need to eat, and you’d rather chow down on canned ravioli than brains. You wish you had listened to your mother when she used to tell you that a purse could never be too big. You could have bought one of those mammoth totes that the college girls used to awkwardly trudge around with, and then not have to choose whether or not a box of tampons is more necessary than a bottle of water.

You keep your sharpest pair of scissors and a bottle of hairspray. A purple comb that’s great for teasing. There’s also a tube of lipstick. Just in case.

You take shoes as you find them. You used to hate tennis shoes and ballet flats; your feet have callouses from wearing and standing in high heels for eight hours a day for six years of your life, but you persevered. You learned they weren’t practical anymore when you had to run, and you fell, nearly twisting your ankle. Now, you don’t get a choice, and you’re grateful for the occasional new pair of Vans you find. Especially if you don’t have to remove them off of the bottom half of a decomposing torso. When you find stilettos, you try them on, balance and sashay your hips like the Victoria’s Secret models that were once advertised everywhere. Just few a few seconds of normalcy, before you keep moving.

You try not to travel at night. You don’t like to stay in any one location for too long. It’s better to keep constant, you think, even though nowhere is actually safe. Nowhere is unaffected. At least you’re in the best shape of your life, and you finally don’t feel guilty for drinking that second can of Dr. Pepper or inhaling three Snickers bars and a Payday.

Vending machines, when found, are definitely useful.




What you miss the most is the ease in which pre-nightmare-gore-fest allowed for cleaning. Seriously, your hair is disgusting most of the time. Your roots are embarrassing, and you have a ridiculous amount of split-ends. You miss deodorant and finger nail polish and a hot shower. There is more dirt under your nails than there is on the continent of Asia. You celebrate in the fact that you have a pair of tweezers and the immaculate grooming of your eyebrows. You desperately desire Q-tips.

Trying to bath is almost as horrifying as trying to sleep. At least, when you’re alone. You can always take turns if you have someone else, but you think groups are more dangerous, and you find that you don’t like listening to everyone’s neuroses now anymore then when you cut hair for a living. Honestly, you never understood how having a cosmetology license translated to having a degree in psychology. Mostly, though, you don’t like to get attached. The last person you got attached to was dragged through a window by twenty clawing hands.

So when you stumble across her, you say: “I’ve been waiting for you.” What you mean is: I’m tired of being alone, and I desperately need to shower. You offer to trim her bangs and throw her a can of peas.