There’s a cemetery across the way, tucked into the elbow of the road like a secret. It creeps toward the university and when the zombies come, it’ll be the students who rise up first, and thus, fall first. The first line of defense is the first line of offense, and the first to be buried. At least there will be available graves.
Walking down the narrow graveyard path at night, I try to imagine what it’ll look like when the zombie apocalypse comes to this city made of bricks and craft brews. One of the libraries, on the other side of the cemetery, would make an adequate fortress with its multiple levels and fire doors. The lower level in particular, being underground, would be a safe haven for those unable to continue the fight.
I wonder if the potentiality for walking dead has been figured into the university’s insurance policy. Or its sky high tuition. I make a list of things to carry with me to the library in the future, just in case. I’ve seen the FEMA commercials. I can’t predict when the dead will rise, but I can be prepared. See something, say something. Look up, speak up. I don’t want to be the Paul Revere of the zombie uprising but I am ready to raise the alarm.
Tonight, the cemetery is quiet. The graves are still covered in grass and flowers. The only sound is the distant rush of waterfalls, a beer can chucked from a window, a car trying to crawl up the steep road.
The house sits on the outside of the elbow, the roughened patch, the place that holds the nerves that control the fingers. The glow of the computer shines through the window and if I peer through the blinds, I can see the neighborhood cats walking up the path through the graveyard. The cats know. When they do not cross through the stone archway, I’ll know too.