In a safehouse with my cat. Traded shelter for seeds. I can’t believe no one else thought of hitting a grocery store’s gardening section. No cans left, but tons and tons of seeds, dirt, and pots. Will stay long enough to see the seedlings sprout, and show the cohabitors the basics of rooftop, container, and hydroponic gardening. Maybe knitting, too. Crocheting? I don’t know. Maybe we should hunker down here. Ms. Sprinkles, at least, is a surprisingly proficient mouser. They like her, and are okay that I obviously don’t want her going outside. But it’s boring. I’ve read everything I have at least once, now, and under Our Fearless Leader’s off-key singing, I can still hear the gnashing of the teeth of the dead, and the low growl of those animals we once all loved.
Survivor check in: other Hathorians, are you okay? I haven’t heard from Revena or Gena — have any of you?
Avoid the highways, cities, hospitals, and malls. They seem empty, but they’re everywhere. The dead are everywhere — sometimes it’s like they’re hibernating, until they scent you. It’s like they’re fleas, and can smell your carbon dioxide and feel your warmth. The pets… well. They know where we congregate and how we think. I’m lucky that my sweet Ms. Sprinkles has never gotten on with other cats and has thrown her lot in with me.
Dispatches from readers:
Patrick reports that Massachusetts has fallen.
Aerin reminds us that in even in times of great disaster, segregation must be challenged.
Goddammit. Here’s more dispatches I’ve gotten from other survivors.
We are up such a shitty creek if Megan Fox is too feminist.
Remember, fellow survivors: there are monsters out there.
ETA: Welcome to Blog Like It’s the Apocalypse 2011!