Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I hunt ZOMBIES for a living. There are Six Rules to Survive

Episode Date: October 27, 2025

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My name is Mac. Used to be a sales rep. Wore a tie, memorized buzzwords. Smiled too much. I sat in a cubicle under bright lights, selling things no one needed to people who didn't want them. Back then, my biggest worry was hitting quarterly targets and whether the break-room coffee machine was broken again.

The world's gone now. Dead and buried under a pile of broken glass and rusted metal. I don't sell anything anymore. These days, I get paid to find what's left. I'm what folks call a scavenger, though they like to dress it up with words like retriever or contractor. Makes them feel like civilization still exist. Like they're hiring a professional,

instead of sending a man to find things during a zombie apocalypse. It's simple work. Dangerous, yeah, but simple. You need something. Food, tools, batteries, medicine, you come to me. I go out. I get it. I bring it back. Assuming I don't get shot, crushed, or chewed apart by whatever's squatting in the dark these days. There's no negotiation. You tell me what you want. I tell you what it'll cost. If you don't like the price, go find it yourself. Good luck with that. Now most folks don't understand what the world looks like past the edge of their little safe zone.

They've built walls, figurative or not, and pretend what's outside doesn't exist. But out there, past the burned-out neighborhoods and half-sunking highways. It's all rot, bones, rust, silence. The kind of silence that presses against your ears like it once in. I've walked through a shopping mall with its roof caved in. Escalators choked with vines. Found a vending machine full of mummified rats. I've kicked open pharmacy doors only to find the shelves empty,

stripped clean years ago by looters or worse. Once, I found a mattress on the fifth floor of an office building. Still had sheets on it. A blanket folded at the foot. Whoever slept there had set up candles and glass jars along the window cell, melted down to nubs. Everything else was dust, but that little room looked untouched, like someone had just stepped out. I didn't sleep for two nights after that. The job makes you careful.

It makes you cold. I used to talk a lot. Now, I say what needs saying and not much else. I live outside the town of Ridge Run. What's left of it, anyway. A handful of buildings still stand. People trade what they can. I don't bother much with the local politics.

Too many arguments about who owns what scrap pile. I've got a shack of ways out. Just far enough no one drops by uninvited. Tin roof, wood stove, one chair. And I've got my dog, Barry. Found Barry about five years ago. Back when things were still falling apart, not long after the cities went dark for good. I was out in the country, following a lead on an old co-op farm that supposedly had sealed bins of grain.

Looked to be some kind of winery back in the day. Fields of dried grape vines as far as the eye could see. Someone said they saw solar panels still upright on the roof. That usually means batteries, maybe even refrigeration. Could have been nothing, but I went. I was desperate back then. Still thought I could set something up long term. Maybe grow food.

Dumb idea. The place was half collapsed. One barn had burned to the ground. The house was mostly gutted. I figured it had been picked clean years ago, but I kept looking. You never know what gets overlooked. I heard this sound while walking behind the greenhouse. Wasn't loud.

Just a kind of wet, sticky noise, followed by a wine. I thought it might be something injured, maybe a wild coyote or a raccoon. Normally I'd steer clear of stuff like that. But it was late in the day when I was already planning to stay the the night in the cellar. So I went to check. There was a hole near the base of the back wall. Looked like something had tunneled under, or maybe the foundation had just eroded. Inside, half buried in what looked like pulp, was a puppy. He was coated in red and purple juice, eyes barely open, whining and twitching like he'd been stuck for hours.

First I thought he was hurt. Looked like blood. But it turned out he'd fallen into a pile of rotting berries. Mulberries, grapes, maybe even plums. Couldn't really tell anymore. Just a fermenting mess. The thing must have snuck into an old batch of berries when it was starving. He was a mess, too.

Smelled like sour wine and wet dog. I pulled him out. wiped him down with my sleeve and wrapped him in a piece of tarp. He didn't fight it, just laid there shivering. I wasn't sure he'd make it through the night. I fed him some jerky and let him curl up in my pack. And come morning, he was still breathing. Didn't cry, just stared at me,

like he was waiting to see if I'd throw him away or not. I kept him. Didn't have a real reason. Maybe I was tired of being by myself. Maybe I didn't want to leave something behind that needed help. And I named him Barry. He's not just a pet. He's a partner.

Smart, alert, and quiet. Learns fast. Doesn't bark unless there's real trouble. He can sniff out rot, track a trail, spot movement in tall grass. I've seen him freeze dead still at the scent of something wrong. Save my life more than once. We work as a team. I clear rooms, check for traps, open containers.

He watches my back. If I'm going into a collapsed building, I'll send him ahead sometimes. He's small enough to squeeze through broken doorways or holes in the wall. If he growls, I don't go in. If he comes back quiet. It's probably safe. We share food. We sleep in the same tent when we're out on a long job.

I talk to him more than I talk to people. He listens better too. Never interrupts, never lies, never asks for more than I can give. The world now is broken. Cities are either flooded or burned. Towns like Ridge Run are just clusters of survivors doing what they can with what's left. Some places have warlords. Others have cults.

Some keep to themselves and shoot anyone who gets too close. There's no real government anymore. No phones, no internet, no mall. If you want something from somewhere else, you need someone like me. People come to me with request. Sometimes they want old tools or car parts. Sometimes they're looking for a missing person. Sometimes it's medication they need, or seeds, or a working radio.

I charge based on risk and distance, and I don't take every job. Some are too dumb, or too suicidal, or too vague. But if it sounds possible, and the pace decent, I'll take it. I've worked through chemical zones, collapsed factories, mines, overgrown highways, I've dealt with feral dogs, scavenger gangs, and people too far gone to remember their own names. I do it because I know how to. I do it because I'm good at it. And I've got Barry.

That makes all the difference. I've been doing this kind of work for a while now, long enough to know what gets you killed and what keeps you breathing. There's no handbook for scavenging in a world like this. No training videos. No boss looking over your shoulder. Just your choices. And whether they were the right ones. Over time, I came up with my own set of rules.

Here's the first one. Rule number one. Don't trust anybody. Sounds simple, but it is the hardest one to follow. People are the real danger now. Not the dead things walking around. The infected, at least. are honest about what they want.

People. They'll smile while they're deciding if they should rob you, eat you, or just use you for bait. You'll meet folks who look fine. Clean clothes, calm voices, maybe even a small camp with a fire going. You'll think? Finally, somebody normal.

Don't believe it. A newly infected zombie looks more human than most of us. They can talk, walk, and even joke, right up until their first taste of blood. After that, everything goes fast. The eyes cloud. The nails blacken. The teeth start to loosen. I learned the hard way.

Barry and I were north of Ridge Run, heading toward a cluster of houses I'd spotted from the old highway. Looked like a quiet planks, untouched. Maybe worth a look. We hadn't eaten in a day and a half, and I was hoping for canned food or maybe a water tank. We came across a small cottage just off the road. Curtain still hanging. Front porch swept clean. A man stepped out as I got closer.

He looked healthy. Hair trimmed, clothes neat. No twitching. No fever look. He held up his hands to show he wasn't armed and said, You look like you could use something warm. Barry stayed behind me, growling low. And I should have listened to him right then.

But the man seemed calm. He said he'd been alone for weeks, hiding out. Said he still had coffee. I remember thinking coffee. The hell has coffee anymore. He poured me a cup anyway. The water was murky. but it smelled like something real, something from before, you know.

I almost thanked him, but then he smiled. One of his molars fell out right into the cup and made a soft sound like a pebble hitting the bottom of a bowl. He looked down at it, confused, like he didn't understand what had just happened. That his hand twitched. and his mouth opened wider than it should have. His gums were black. I shot him before he could stand up. The cup shattered when it hit the ground.

Steam mixed with the smell of decay. Barry barked once and then went silent again. We searched the house after that, found another body upstairs. Looked like it'd been chewed on. Not all of it, just the softer parts. I closed the door and left it that way. That's when I made it rule number one. Don't trust anybody.

Doesn't matter how friendly they seem, how polite their voice sounds. If you didn't know them before the world ended, they're a risk. The infected act like us, too, until they can't. A few days after that, I found the house. Looked like a party had been set up. Pink balloons tied to chairs. Half-eaten cake still sitting on the table. Paper hats lined up neat.

Someone had written Happy Seventh on a banner in pink paint. The floor was sticky, with something sweet and dark. The smell hit first. Sugar and meat. Berry whined as we stepped. I told him to stay close, but he didn't need the reminder. The horde must have come through fast, probably drawn by the laughter or the singing. I could almost picture it.

Parents lighting candles, kids laughing, someone clapping along to a song. Then the first scream. The sound of chairs falling over. The crash of a table breaking. When I walked through the kitchen, I saw footprints in the icing. Small ones. Kids had run, maybe tried to hide. Didn't matter.

Once the parents turn, it's over. The newly infected always go after whatever is closest. There's no sound quite like music from a toy piano. echoing through a dead house. I found one upstairs, still sitting in front of a tiny pink chair. It played a few notes when Barry's paw brushed against it. Just three broken tones over and over, till I pulled the batteries out. I didn't say anything for a long time after that.

Barry sat beside me on the stairs, head on his paws. I told him This is why we don't stay long, boy Places like this They get in your head I scratched him behind the ears He looked up at me with that steady stare of his You know it's strange how much you can read in a dog's eyes

I don't need words to know what he's thinking Just that quiet understanding That keeps you from going completely numb I did what I could, buried who I could identify. The rest I burned. It's better that way. Fire doesn't care who's who. When it was done, I left the candles burning on the table and gathered what supplies I could.

The frosting was melting, dripping down the sides of the cake like wax. The banner moved slightly in the draft from the end of the ice. open window. Happy seventh. Remember thinking about that number seven. Old enough to read, to laugh, to still believe the world is safe. I wondered how long they'd kept the decorations up, hoping someone might come back. Barry nudged my hand and snapped me out of it. I scratched behind his ear.

Yeah, boy. Let's get out of here. We walked until the house disappeared behind a row of dead trees. By then the sun was low. We didn't look back. People say it's better to travel with others, safety and numbers they claim. And there is still some truth to that. But out here, the wrong company will get you killed faster than any pack of infected.

So don't trust anybody. Not at first. Take your time, watch how they move. See what they want. If you ever do find someone worth trusting, hold on to him. Rule two. Bring a jar of flies. Sounds stupid the first time you hear it.

I get that. People look at me like I've lost it when they see the jar tied to my belt. care what it looks like. That jar has saved my life more than once. The infected, some folks call them zombies, others call them unmentionables, can pass for human during the early stages. That's what makes them dangerous. The infection doesn't always show right away. There's no big transformation at first, no groaning, no dragging feet. Just a person who looks tired. Maybe a little pale. Could be anyone.

Could be your friend. Sometimes it takes months for the signs to show. And even then, they are easy to miss. A little stiffness in the neck, yellowing around the fingernails. Bad breath that never goes away. By the time you notice might be too late. And that's where the flies come in.

Flies don't lie. You take a small jar, something clear like an old pickle jar, punch holes in the lid and cover it with mesh. Inside, you drop a piece of rotting meat, just a bit, enough to keep the flies alive. They buzz around in there, slow and lazy most of the time. As long as nothing dead is nearby, they won't. get too worked up. But when there's something rotten close by, something only they can sense. They go nuts, fast, loud, bouncing off the glass like they're trying to escape. That's your first warning. Something's not right. It gets better when you let them out. I only

do that when I'm unsure. If someone's given me the wrong feeling, but they didn't. don't show any clear signs, you know. Maybe they look too healthy. Maybe they're too calm. That's when I unclipp the jar and let the flies loose. They always know right where to land. Flies are drawn to rot, not just the kind we can see, but the kind that's still hidden under the skin. The infection starts deep, inside the organs. In the blood? A person might still be breathing, still talking, but the flies can smell what's coming.

If they swarm around someone and start landing on them, more than anything else nearby, that's the sign. They're already dead. They just don't know it yet. I have done this many times. A group of survivors let me into their camp one time. They offer me a meal. placed by the fire. Everything seems fine. But the jar starts rattling, and my flies go crazy.

I open the lid and watch. If they fly to a stew pot, fine. If they buzz toward the latrine, sure. But if they circle a person and land on their skin over and over, I get out of there fast. No questions, no arguments, I just go. Once, I was traveling with a guy named Ellis. We teamed up for a job west of the ridge. A salvage run through an old train yard. Seemed like a decent guy. Knew how to shoot.

Carried his own weight. He didn't talk much, which I appreciated. On the third day, the jar started buzzing louder than usual. I let the flies out during lunch, like I always do when I get that feeling. And most of them went straight towards Ellis, landed on his sleeve, his collar. One crawled right above his eye, and he didn't even blink. I stood up slow, reached for my pack, didn't make a scene. He asked what was wrong.

What are you doing, Mac? What's with all the flies? You've got a smell on you, Ellis. And it ain't something soap can fix, I replied. He tried to laugh it off. Said I was being paranoid, and maybe I was. But I'd rather lose a partner than get torn apart in my sleep. We had a small argument and decided to go our separate ways after that.

But I knew what I saw. And just before I left, I saw the blooming bruise from a bite mark on his forearm that he tried to hide with his sleeves. People think the undead are all groaning monsters, but most of them aren't. Not right away. Some of them walk among us. They talk. They nod. They eat food just to look normal.

But inside the rot is spreading. The flies know it. They always do. So I bring the jar. I feed the flies. I keep them alive. You can't always trust your eyes. Or your gut?

Not always, anyway. But you can trust flies. They never pretend. Some folks say I'm too careful that I jump at shadows. and see threats where there aren't any. But I'm still alive. Out here, being a little paranoid, gives you insurance.

Which leads me to rule number three. Rule three. The undead are not your loved ones. They might wear the same face, walk the same way, even say a few words if they've turned recently. But they're not who they used to being. Not anymore.

This is where a lot of people mess up. They see someone they recognize, a wife, a brother, a child, and they freeze. They can't bring themselves to do what needs doing. They wait too long, and they end up dead. I'm not saying it's easy, it's not. But out here, survival is not about what's easy. It's about what's necessary. If you can't stomach the killing, I won't judge you.

Not everyone can. Not everyone should, I guess. But if that's the case, you need to avoid them completely. Don't stand there hoping something changes. Don't talk to them like they're still in there. They're not. You can avoid them. They're ways.

Flies are one. We already. talked about that. They can give you warning. Enough time to slip away, change direction, and stay hidden. Trained animals are another. Barry's not just a companion. He helps, too. He's learned to freeze when something's wrong, to sniff out the rot before I see it. If he stiffens or lowers his head, I know to stop moving. And sometimes that's all it takes. just standing still, letting something pass by without noticing you.

You can also watch for patterns. The undead move different than us, even the fresh ones. They hesitate at doors. They turn their heads too slow. They don't blink. If you're not going to fight, then learn to observe. Learn to run smart.

Learn where, Not to go, that's still survival. But here's the thing. You don't get to be useless, okay? If you won't be strong, then please at least be clever. If you won't carry a weapon, carry tools that can help. Bring warning devices. Set traps behind you to slow anything following.

Travel with someone who can fight, but don't rely on them like a crutch. Be ready to pull your own. own weight. I've met people who say they don't want to kill. Fine, great. Good time in a zombie apocalypse to not want to kill anything. But if that's your stance, then prepare harder than anyone else. Think nine steps ahead. Learn how to track. Learn how to spot changes in the environment. Build something that keeps you alive. The worst kind of person out here is the one who can't kill and doesn't prepare either. That kind of person gets you killed.

I'm not telling you to become a killer, though probably you should. I'm saying at least know yourself. Know your limits, man. Know your morals and keep them close. We're all trying to hold on to something. For some, it's hope. For others, it's guilt. Some think the world's going to bounce back,

and they want to be the kind of person worth keeping around when it does, and I get that. Look, whatever your reason, that's yours. But don't let it blind you. Maybe the world isn't doomed. Maybe there's a horizon out there and this mess doesn't last forever. Fine by me. I don't judge anyone for having hope. But if you're planning to stick around for the good,

days when they come. Do us all a favor. Make yourself useful while we get there. And if you're going in for the skill, well, I have a rule for that too. Rule number four, always double-tap. That means never assume one hit is enough. Ever. I don't care if you shoot them clean through the skull or split their head with an axe. Do it again. Because of the, Zombies don't stay down like they should. People think it's like the old movies. One bullet, one fall, that's it. But I have seen bodies sit back up after lying still for an hour.

No warning sound. Just eyes snap open. Arms reaching. Like they were taking a nap. That's why I always double tap. Always. One shot to the skull. Second shot to the spine.

If I have the angle. If I'm swinging, I go for the head first, then crush the neck. If I have to stomp it in, I'll do that too. Doesn't matter the weapon. Gun, axe, crowbar, hammer, use what you got. Just make sure the head's pulp. Nothing clean or polite. Break it.

Then you check the heart. That's what they never told us in the old world. Not in books, not in TV. Not in those early broadcasts that stopped after a few weeks. Everybody's always focused on the brain. But the infection settles into both, the brain and the heart. You can shoot them through the head, sure, and they'll drop. But sometimes, if the heart's still pumping, even weakly, the body won't stop moving.

body won't stop moving. The muscles jerk. The jaw snaps. I have seen ones that kept crawling forward even after its skull was leaking. The only way to be sure is to check the chest. If you're using a blade, you stab deep. If it's blunt, you break the ribs. You'll need force to get through. That's why most fighters carry two weapons, one for rain. change, one for crushing. I've got my rifle for distance, scoped, bolt action, clean trigger pull. But up close, I carry a short-handled sledge. Heavy, but not too heavy. Perfect for cracking bone. Lives on my hip. I don't go anywhere without it. I've had people ask why I go to such effort when the dead are already lying there.

Why not just leave them, they say. Why not save the ammo? Because I have seen what happens when you don't. A group I used to travel with, five of us at the time. We cleared out a barn, thought it was safe. One of the bodies looked dried out, fully dead. Nobody bothered to double tap. We set up camp right there on the floor.

floor. Hours later, it moved, got the drop on us, took a chunk out of a girl's arm before I could stop it. We had to put her down the next morning. No one said a word, but after that, we all started checking twice, which leads me to my next rule about survival in this place. You're going to have to learn how to run. Rule 5. Stay limber. Sounds like a joke, right? Like something you'd hear from a high school gym coach before making your run laps in the heat. But it's not a joke. Out here, staying limber can mean the difference between walking home and getting torn apart in a ditch. Most people think surviving means being strong, carrying big weapons, swinging hard.

Yeah, that helps, sure. Most of the time it's about running. Getting out of there before the numbers catch up to you. Before something grabs your ankle. Before the exits close. Zombies don't get tired, but you do. That's just the truth of it. I run a lot more than I fight.

Most fights aren't fair. One or two unmentionables, maybe I'll stand my round. But a pack? No way. You turn, you run, and you don't look back. And if your knees lock up? If your back cramps? If your foot twist because you didn't stretch before heading out. Well, let me tell you a story. This is about a year ago. Barry and I were scavenging an old hardware store on the east side of Ridge Run. Roof was half gone. The place was picked kicked over, but I was hoping for wire, nails, anything we could trade. I woke up real stiff that morning.

It slept weird, you know, shoulder tucked wrong, neck sore. I didn't do my usual stretches. Just rolled out of the bed roll, fed Barry a strip of jerky, started walking. Thought? It's the worst thing that can happen. Well, we were inside the store. for maybe ten minutes when I spotted the back door swinging open and that's never a good sign doors don't you know swing open on their own Barry froze beside me ears up nose twitching

and then I heard him slow dragging steps the kind that echo wrong unbroken tile I counted the sounds Too many I backed up slowly And turned around just in time to see the front entrance blocked Pack of six Maybe seven All fresh

Now time to fight I shouted to Barry and made for the shelves Hoping to cut through the side aisle And slip out the window we came through I should have been fast. Should have been fine. But I hadn't stretched that morning. My legs were tight, ankle stiff.

Halfway through the aisle, I slipped on a busted paint can lid. My right knee twisted and I went down hard. Elbow hit the edge of a shelf, sent a wrench clanging across the floor. The noise pulled all seven straight toward us. Barry circled back, teeth bared, growling low. I got up trying not to limp, and I forced my legs to move. Everything burned. I made it to the window just as the first one reached the aisle.

Barry jumped out first. I dropped down after him, shoulder first into the dirt. We didn't stop running for half a mile. back of the shag. I was groaned in rubbing my knee. Barry sat by the stove, watching me like I'd done something stupid, which I had. He tilted his head, real slow like he was judging me. I looked at him and said, yeah, I know, I know I should have stretched. He blinked once. You think you're better than me just because you do that little downward dog thing? every morning. He sneezed at that. I pointed at him.

I'll give me attitude, all right, you weren't the one limp in for three days. He yawned, then flop down like nothing had happened. So yeah, laugh if you want, but I'd rather look stupid stretching in the dirt than end up zombie chow because I pull the calf muscle trying to leap a fence. Survival's not about glory. It's about doing what works, even if it looks very silly. You stay loose, you stay alive. Simple. A thing is, it's not just about outrunning sometimes.

You gotta climb sometimes too. And that's the part that sticks with me. There's this one time, early days. Barry was still a pup, barely big enough to climb into my pack on his own. We were traveling with a small group then, but only one of them really mattered. His name was Williams. Been with me since the outbreak. We met on a fuel run and stuck together after that.

The man had a limp from a car crash back in 2009. Right leg never fully healed, but he kept up as best he could. Tougher than most. Knew how to stay quiet. Knew how to shoot straight. We were crossing a patch of four. forest, old growth and scattered farmland, quiet, peaceful almost. And then the horde came. We didn't know what drew them, maybe a sound, maybe our scent. Doesn't matter now.

We ran, no time to plan, no place to hide. I found a tree, tall, solid, branches low enough to grab, and I climbed. I remember Barry yelping below. I grabbed him, shoved him into my pack, and hauled us both up as fast as I could. The bark tore at my hands, but I didn't stop. Williams tried. He really did. I reached down to help him, but his leg gave out after the first jump. He slipped back down and I was halfway up when I heard the first of them break through the trees behind us. I remember the sound more than the sight, the crunch of branches, the screaming that turned wet. His gun fired again and again, and I didn't look, just pressed my back to the trunk and held Barry close.

Then his gun went quiet Then his breathing stopped The next day there wasn't anything left of him That's funny what you carry with you Some people remember birthdays I remember that sound Comes back every time my knees ache When I take a bad fall

Every time I get stiff Curse how slow I've gotten I think of a little of Williams of how he couldn't climb. So I stretch. I run drills, I keep moving. Not because I think I'm faster than the rest, but because I've seen what happens when you're not fast enough.

Now, speaking of stupid mistakes, there's one place people always let their guard down. They think it's private, quiet, safe. It's not. It's one of the most dangerous spots you will ever walk into if you're not thinking. Next rule and pay attention, because this one catches everyone eventually. Beware of bathrooms. Sounds dumb, right? But it is one of the most important things I've learned.

I don't care how desperate you are to go, or how clean the place looks from the outside. Don't trust it. will kill you quicker than a horde on open ground. The dead don't linger out in the open much anymore. Maybe in the early days when they were still figuring things out. Back then you'd find him standing in fields, wandering highways, or slumped across storefronts and broad daylight. Easy targets.

Predictable. Not anymore. Now they hide. Especially the older ones. They've learned that being out in the open gets them shot. So they take shelter and closed off spaces. Abandoned shops, back rooms, closets, and worst of all bathrooms. They're perfect for them.

Small, dark, quiet. Plenty of corners to tuck into. If you make a sound, door, Your creek, footstep, cough. They wait for it. And when you step too far inside, they're already behind you. I don't go into any enclosed space without knowing my exit. Ever.

But bathrooms? I avoid him completely. I haven't used one in years. I'll tell you why. Barry and I were moving through a burned out town west of the ridge. No name signs left. Just ash, rust, and half-collapsed buildings. Look like a fire had taken most of it, but a few structures were still standing.

One was a gas station. Roof was half caved in, but the side door was open. We figured we'd check it for supplies. I went at first, slow, careful. Barry stayed by the door. It was quiet, but I didn't think much of it. I was with another guy at the time, young, twitchy, said he had to pee. I told him to do it outside, but he laughed and said, come on, man, it's just a bathroom.

He pushed the door open, and I will never forget the sound that came next. Like chairs falling all at once? followed by screaming. I ran back and opened the door, but it was already over. Found his arm by the sink, torn off clean at the shoulder. No sign of the rest of him. The dead were stacked in the far corner, at least ten of them. Quiet as bones, piled like trash bags.

Looked like they'd been there for days. maybe weeks. No sound. No movement until he stepped inside. Then they rushed him. Didn't even get to pull his weapon. And after that I stopped using bathrooms. I don't care about decency. Let the dead have the plumbing. I'm not dying because I wanted privacy. Rule of thumb. If it's small enough, to echo, it's small enough to trap you. You step into a room that small, you better know your exits. Better have backup. Better have somebody waiting outside with a weapon. But really, just don't go in at all. I have found them under sinks, behind doors, crammed into stalls with the seat still down. Once, I found one wedged between an old mop closet, so dry.

in gray. I thought it was just old cloth. Then it moved. That one nearly got Barry. Bit the strap of his pack instead of his leg. I smashed its head with a fire extinguisher. We left the station right after that. It didn't take anything. Some places just aren't worth it. Bathrooms are traps, plain and simple. I've heard stories from other survivors. Same thing. Someone needs a quiet place to sit, or wash up, or just breathe for a second. They think a bathroom means safety. Then the door behind them opens, or the stall next to them isn't empty. Or the thing under the sink isn't dead after all. You don't walk away from that. So don't be stupid. Don't be shy. Go outside like the

rest of us. Behind a car, I don't know, under a tree, whatever, just not inside. You want to live another day? Let the dead keep their bathrooms. And yeah, those are the rules. Nothing fancy, nothing carved in stones, just things we've picked up along the way. If they help you, well, good. If they keep you breathing one more day even better. Barry and I are heading east now. Might be more jobs, might be more zombies. Who knows? But whatever's out there, Barry and I know the rules. And now, well, you do too. Good luck.