While trying to choose the perfect book on cd for your next road/camping trip, consider carefully the ramifications of listening to survival tales from the Zombie Apocalypse. I was just too cavalier, standing there in the relative safety of the public library, deliberating between cute anecdotes about the hijinks of the new family puppy versus the pseudo-documentary of the 10 year global aftermath of a zombie viral infection. I thought to myself, 'It is just *fiction* and who really believes in zombies, anyway?' This was going to be the last road/camping trip of my official summer vacation and I was feeling cynical, tough, even, well, brazen. No G rated puppy stories for this girl, no, I had to pick the zombies.
The fantastic thing about listening to a book on cd while on a road trip is that after a few hours of uninterrupted play, I really start to believe that I am in the story. I am actually surprised to find that the rest of the world is going on as usual when I stop to fill my gas tank or bolster myself with an ice cream cone. Why aren't the gas station attendants more concerned about standing around in the open air, easy potential targets of a zombie attack? How can those drive- through windows be left open, without any protective bars? Hasn't anyone noticed that abandoned car in the parking lot, the one that could be filled with a zombie family, still locked in the vehicle because they turned undead while they were driving and can't figure out how to unlatch their seatbelts? What about that huge truck filled with cattle, just one big all-zombies-can-eat-buffet of beef, rolling down the freeway? Was I the only one concerned about the safety of South Eastern Arizona? This place was the Shangri-La destination for zombies everywhere and I was driving through Ground Zero, unarmed!
The further I drove, the longer I listened, the more critical it became that I take a mental inventory of the contents of my own car. Could I down a charging zombie with a good swing of my camp stove? Did I pack the sharp knife in the food box, or just that wimpy steak knife? Could I decapitate a zombie with my tent stakes? Just how long was the jack that was tucked underneath all of that gear and why was I so stupidly unprepared to leave it in the least inaccessible place in the car? As I plotted my protection from certain zombie doom, I reminded myself that I could blame no one else for this looming disaster -- if only I would have chosen that cd about the puppy. As I longed for the hilarity of chewed shoes and yellow puddles hidden behind a half consumed couch, I turned west, starting the 30 mile drive toward the campground.
Even though the forecast called for monsoon rain for the duration of my camping trip, I was unprepared for the wall of zombie hiding fog that hung ahead. Covering Mt. Graham like a clammy clothesline sheet, I pushed through it at a NASCAR speed of 25 miles per hour. Zombies might shamble but I was confident that I could certainly out drive them. My car swirled up the switchbacks, low lights reflecting through the fog. The zombie apocalypse had finally reached the woods and even the hardiest of self sufficient mountain men were finding themselves falling prey to the ever forward marching infected masses. Park rangers were interviewed about forest safety precautions for campers as I went to my happy place and imagined flowers, the smell of baking brownies and fluffy baby ducks. I could have turned the cd off, instead listening to the wind in the trees or the rumble of thunder off in the distance, but I had to know what was going to happen next, if anyone would survive this disaster.
I found my peace of mind in the voice of Alan Alda, who played Arthur Sinclair, the man charged with organizing the Zombie War Recovery Effort. If anyone could calmly organize former music industry executives, rehab recovered starlets and a crew of maids and construction workers into eradicating the Zombie Plague from the world, it was Alda. He spoke of reconstruction efforts, of self reliance, of the creation of Lobotomizers and I was soothed. I knew that I would be safe on the mountain, with Alan in charge.
I pulled into the campground and set up my tent before the sky unzipped and rain muddied my world. I rolled out my sleeping bag, snacked on pretzels and reassured myself that zombies didn't like the rain and were too clumsy to attack through the sucking sludge of the mud. Just in case, it didn't hurt to have my tire iron inside the tent.
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