- Posting Speed
- 1-3 posts per day
- Writing Levels
- Adaptable
- Preferred Character Gender
- Female
- Genres
- Sci-fi, fantasy, magical, modern, Steampunk
Regret.
That was the word defining Weiwei's life right about now.
Weiwei regretted making plans to be an exhibitor at New York's Comic Con. The arrangements had been made pre-Outbreak, of course. Carefully and methodically made. She had even arranged to reserve parking on the roof level of a parking garage, so Imladris' solar panels, solar water heater, and mini wind turbine could be put to proper use.
She regretted following through with them instead of turning Imladris around and heading in the general direction of West Virginia or Montana or somewhere else where there would be at least a hundred miles of rednecks with farms and lots of guns between her and the nearest zombie horde. It had seemed like a good, even helpful idea at the time. The people who went to Comic Cons were in a sense, her tribe. Highly creative and intelligent people, many of whom could make awe-inspiring costumes and accessories, people with Maker skills. In addition to selling her own wares, she'd planned to pass out stacks of basic How To Survive Collapse Guides, with concise instructions with web links on how to grow a garden and raise chickens, how to build solar water heaters, solar cookers, DIY wind turbines, and the like: appropriate technology to help people get through the hard times ahead. "Zombie Survival Handbooks" of every sort had existed in profusion before the Outbreak, and were flying off every shelf; Weiwei intended to help with the rest of the how-to-survive questions, like "how are we going to eat once the canned food and Cheese Doodles run out?"
Weiwei regretted still thinking that the "Long Descent" collapse scenario was more likely even after the initial Outbreak. She hadn't really expected the "Fortress America" strategy to do much more than speed the process somewhat, as the "Just In Time" supply chains of the global economy were shredded. Yes, she'd expected that there would be a Z-Day on American shores. She had just thought that some bright spark at the Pentagon, and in pretty much every metropolitan police department would re-invent Roman style phalanx tactics, with something like entrenching tools in place of the gladius, until somebody got around to mass-producing gladii and pikes. Riot police already had the right equipment and training; all that was needed was widespread recruitment of volunteers equipped with improvised shields cut from car door panels and crowbars or hammers or hatchets or sharpened dowels, basic hardware store stuff. Zeds weren't smart; they attacked en masse in predictable ways that the Roman phalanx was ideally suited to counter. Stand in a line, shoulder-to-shoulder and shield-to-shield. Hold your ground. When the Zeds come, bonk! bonk! chop! chop! stab! stab! When you get tired, move back and let the person behind you take your place and bonk! bonk! chop! chop! stab! stab! Until the Zeds stopped coming. Everyone in America knew how to kill a zombie, long before there were ever any zombies to kill. And so, she had thought that Z-Day would be a fairly one-sided contest ending in favor of the most heavily-armed nation on Earth.
Weiwei regretted expecting that what had to be the single most pervasive and thorough (if unintentional) educational campaign in the history of the human species--How To Kill Zombies--would actually work. Had she been a war nerd, she might have anticipated that the American military would make the major mistake great military forces often made, which was to Fight the Last War, instead of the current one. They had machine guns and guided missiles and drone aircraft tanks and fighter jets and aircraft carriers, all oriented around a military doctrine of standoff firepower: blow shit up from a distance, and never get hands dirty or put boots on the ground. Exactly the wrong weapons and tactics to use against zombies.
Weiwei regretted failing to notice that what had to be the single most pervasive and thorough (if unintentional) educational campaign in the history of the human species had worked, just in the wrong way. True, all the zombie movies and books and television series and Zombie Apocalypse Survival Guides had taught people to Go For The Head. What she hadn't noticed was how deeply those movies and books also catered to American Rugged Individualism: they taught people to go it alone or at best in small groups, with lots of guns and cars. None of them ever showed Americans how to join together and defeat the zombies as a civilization. Americans couldn't even agree to have their government collect enough taxes to keep their bridges from falling apart, much less start building some wind turbines and solar panels and a real train system for when the oil started running short. The Roman phalanx, and the degree of cooperation it required, was as alien to Americans as having five eyes and tentacles.
And so, Weiwei regretted being trapped at the top of a parking garage in the middle of New York City. During the initial panic, she had opted to stay put. Imladris would never have won any race for the exits. This upper level had been the least desirable parking in the area, and about a third of the cars that had been present were driven away by their owners. Weiwei had taken down the wind turbine so the movement of its blades wouldn't draw attention, then buttoned herself up in Imladris with the lights and appliances all turned off. A horde had come this far up during the initial surge, but with all the noise and gunfire and movement being everywhere else, they eventually flowed away except for a handful of stragglers. Those, she'd taken out with her sword and pitched over the edge to splat on the ground six stories below. Then she'd parked a couple of the cars nose to tail across the entrance to the roof level. Not an insuperable barrier, but it would probably keep the occasional Zed from wandering up here, as long as all the action was everywhere else.
So far, so good. Now what? Her supplies would not last forever, and there were six levels of Zed-infested darkness between her and the streets.
That was the word defining Weiwei's life right about now.
Weiwei regretted making plans to be an exhibitor at New York's Comic Con. The arrangements had been made pre-Outbreak, of course. Carefully and methodically made. She had even arranged to reserve parking on the roof level of a parking garage, so Imladris' solar panels, solar water heater, and mini wind turbine could be put to proper use.
She regretted following through with them instead of turning Imladris around and heading in the general direction of West Virginia or Montana or somewhere else where there would be at least a hundred miles of rednecks with farms and lots of guns between her and the nearest zombie horde. It had seemed like a good, even helpful idea at the time. The people who went to Comic Cons were in a sense, her tribe. Highly creative and intelligent people, many of whom could make awe-inspiring costumes and accessories, people with Maker skills. In addition to selling her own wares, she'd planned to pass out stacks of basic How To Survive Collapse Guides, with concise instructions with web links on how to grow a garden and raise chickens, how to build solar water heaters, solar cookers, DIY wind turbines, and the like: appropriate technology to help people get through the hard times ahead. "Zombie Survival Handbooks" of every sort had existed in profusion before the Outbreak, and were flying off every shelf; Weiwei intended to help with the rest of the how-to-survive questions, like "how are we going to eat once the canned food and Cheese Doodles run out?"
Weiwei regretted still thinking that the "Long Descent" collapse scenario was more likely even after the initial Outbreak. She hadn't really expected the "Fortress America" strategy to do much more than speed the process somewhat, as the "Just In Time" supply chains of the global economy were shredded. Yes, she'd expected that there would be a Z-Day on American shores. She had just thought that some bright spark at the Pentagon, and in pretty much every metropolitan police department would re-invent Roman style phalanx tactics, with something like entrenching tools in place of the gladius, until somebody got around to mass-producing gladii and pikes. Riot police already had the right equipment and training; all that was needed was widespread recruitment of volunteers equipped with improvised shields cut from car door panels and crowbars or hammers or hatchets or sharpened dowels, basic hardware store stuff. Zeds weren't smart; they attacked en masse in predictable ways that the Roman phalanx was ideally suited to counter. Stand in a line, shoulder-to-shoulder and shield-to-shield. Hold your ground. When the Zeds come, bonk! bonk! chop! chop! stab! stab! When you get tired, move back and let the person behind you take your place and bonk! bonk! chop! chop! stab! stab! Until the Zeds stopped coming. Everyone in America knew how to kill a zombie, long before there were ever any zombies to kill. And so, she had thought that Z-Day would be a fairly one-sided contest ending in favor of the most heavily-armed nation on Earth.
Weiwei regretted expecting that what had to be the single most pervasive and thorough (if unintentional) educational campaign in the history of the human species--How To Kill Zombies--would actually work. Had she been a war nerd, she might have anticipated that the American military would make the major mistake great military forces often made, which was to Fight the Last War, instead of the current one. They had machine guns and guided missiles and drone aircraft tanks and fighter jets and aircraft carriers, all oriented around a military doctrine of standoff firepower: blow shit up from a distance, and never get hands dirty or put boots on the ground. Exactly the wrong weapons and tactics to use against zombies.
Weiwei regretted failing to notice that what had to be the single most pervasive and thorough (if unintentional) educational campaign in the history of the human species had worked, just in the wrong way. True, all the zombie movies and books and television series and Zombie Apocalypse Survival Guides had taught people to Go For The Head. What she hadn't noticed was how deeply those movies and books also catered to American Rugged Individualism: they taught people to go it alone or at best in small groups, with lots of guns and cars. None of them ever showed Americans how to join together and defeat the zombies as a civilization. Americans couldn't even agree to have their government collect enough taxes to keep their bridges from falling apart, much less start building some wind turbines and solar panels and a real train system for when the oil started running short. The Roman phalanx, and the degree of cooperation it required, was as alien to Americans as having five eyes and tentacles.
And so, Weiwei regretted being trapped at the top of a parking garage in the middle of New York City. During the initial panic, she had opted to stay put. Imladris would never have won any race for the exits. This upper level had been the least desirable parking in the area, and about a third of the cars that had been present were driven away by their owners. Weiwei had taken down the wind turbine so the movement of its blades wouldn't draw attention, then buttoned herself up in Imladris with the lights and appliances all turned off. A horde had come this far up during the initial surge, but with all the noise and gunfire and movement being everywhere else, they eventually flowed away except for a handful of stragglers. Those, she'd taken out with her sword and pitched over the edge to splat on the ground six stories below. Then she'd parked a couple of the cars nose to tail across the entrance to the roof level. Not an insuperable barrier, but it would probably keep the occasional Zed from wandering up here, as long as all the action was everywhere else.
So far, so good. Now what? Her supplies would not last forever, and there were six levels of Zed-infested darkness between her and the streets.
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