Unlike Mr Scalzi and a scary number of others, I am not a zombie. The flesh is still pink and I’m craving miso soup, not brains. (At least not unless they’re lamb’s brains lightly sauteed with lots of garlic.)
I suspect that the apocalypse has not hit New York City yet. Figures that it would ravage the midwest first.
We have a reinforced steel door and enough food to last . . . Hang on a second.
Oh. Okay, enough food to last a few hours. But there’s lots of booze. So I’m good.
And, frankly, I can think of no better way to spend the apocalypse than holed up with me old man and two cases of really good wine.
Here comes Scott to open the first bottle.
Scott? Scott! Oh my Go—