start having doubts until I had already dragged the ladder outside and was standing there staring at the plywood on the ground, with a battery-powered drill and a box of screws shoved into each armpit. But after dragging all that crap outside, I was going to hang that plywood if it killed me. Lucky for me, good sense put a stop to the foolishness before that happened.
So I ended up reinforcing just the windows on the porch, since those were really the only ones a zombie could reach anyway. That leads me to the other realization I had while standing outside and scratching my chin: none of the first floor windows were accessible from the ground.
Granted, if a burglar wanted to get in, he probably could. But burglars can climb, zombies cannot. The house sits on a basement, which I’ve already mentioned. But the terrain in this area is very rocky, making a subterranean basement extremely difficult to dig and build. Yes, most, if not half, of the basement was underground. But there was just enough above ground that it raised the bottom of the windows slightly out of reach. It’s amazing the details we ignore or take for granted, isn’t it?
I also decided to reinforce the front door while I was at it. I thought I had some solid steel bars in the barn, something I had salvaged from a construction job a few years back when the company decided to remodel my former place of employment. So after double checking the windows yet again and being satisfied the plywood sheets were snug and secured, Gus and I walked to the barn. I should have been relieved, not seeing any trace of zombie activity, but instead I was growing tenser by the minute.
The logical part of my mind understood that my location, while inconvenient in the pre-zombie days, was a prime spot for hunkering down and avoiding the hordes of undead. I was safely nestled in the Appalachian mountains of southern West Virginia, with her steep rocky inclines and sparse population. Unless a mass of deadheads lucked into finding their way out of the nearest town (ten miles away and with a pre-zombie population of around fifty), and onto my road (which only had two residents, me and the late Mr. Crousley), then up and along the cliff-strewn mountain I call home, I wouldn’t have to worry about hordes anytime soon. But expect the unexpected right?
Hence the irrational part of my mind was screaming at me to fortify, fortify, fortify. Couldn’t afford to get lazy or let my attention and alertness go soft. There was always the possibility Ben and his group would get stranded somewhere and I would have to rescue them.
Once we got inside the barn I did a quick check around the lower level. The hayloft above was only accessible by ladder and it was propped against the wall, so I knew the upstairs was secure. I rummaged around for some time before finally finding the steel bars. There were six altogether and just about the right length for what I had in mind. Good thing too because I’m not a welder and had no way of cutting them. So after making two trips, and I suppose half a trip running back out for the ladder I had forgotten beside the house, Gus and I went inside for the night. It was just coming dusk, and fixing the bars to the door would keep me busy until bedtime.
* * *
Ben called to check in just as I was fastening the third bar to the wall. Nothing new to report he had said. They had spent the day much as I had: boarding the windows, gathering all the food in the house and taking inventory, that sort of thing. They weren’t planning on a long term stay at that farm, but they needed to be as secure as possible for the immediate future. Nancy was doing better, which I was very pleased to hear, and they had also buried Bill. Mike had spent the day in bed recuperating. We talked a bit more, ironed out some wrinkles in The Plan, then said our goodbyes. I decided to grab a bite to eat before finishing “the gate,” which turned out quite nicely if I do say so
So I ended up reinforcing just the windows on the porch, since those were really the only ones a zombie could reach anyway. That leads me to the other realization I had while standing outside and scratching my chin: none of the first floor windows were accessible from the ground.
Granted, if a burglar wanted to get in, he probably could. But burglars can climb, zombies cannot. The house sits on a basement, which I’ve already mentioned. But the terrain in this area is very rocky, making a subterranean basement extremely difficult to dig and build. Yes, most, if not half, of the basement was underground. But there was just enough above ground that it raised the bottom of the windows slightly out of reach. It’s amazing the details we ignore or take for granted, isn’t it?
I also decided to reinforce the front door while I was at it. I thought I had some solid steel bars in the barn, something I had salvaged from a construction job a few years back when the company decided to remodel my former place of employment. So after double checking the windows yet again and being satisfied the plywood sheets were snug and secured, Gus and I walked to the barn. I should have been relieved, not seeing any trace of zombie activity, but instead I was growing tenser by the minute.
The logical part of my mind understood that my location, while inconvenient in the pre-zombie days, was a prime spot for hunkering down and avoiding the hordes of undead. I was safely nestled in the Appalachian mountains of southern West Virginia, with her steep rocky inclines and sparse population. Unless a mass of deadheads lucked into finding their way out of the nearest town (ten miles away and with a pre-zombie population of around fifty), and onto my road (which only had two residents, me and the late Mr. Crousley), then up and along the cliff-strewn mountain I call home, I wouldn’t have to worry about hordes anytime soon. But expect the unexpected right?
Hence the irrational part of my mind was screaming at me to fortify, fortify, fortify. Couldn’t afford to get lazy or let my attention and alertness go soft. There was always the possibility Ben and his group would get stranded somewhere and I would have to rescue them.
Once we got inside the barn I did a quick check around the lower level. The hayloft above was only accessible by ladder and it was propped against the wall, so I knew the upstairs was secure. I rummaged around for some time before finally finding the steel bars. There were six altogether and just about the right length for what I had in mind. Good thing too because I’m not a welder and had no way of cutting them. So after making two trips, and I suppose half a trip running back out for the ladder I had forgotten beside the house, Gus and I went inside for the night. It was just coming dusk, and fixing the bars to the door would keep me busy until bedtime.
* * *
Ben called to check in just as I was fastening the third bar to the wall. Nothing new to report he had said. They had spent the day much as I had: boarding the windows, gathering all the food in the house and taking inventory, that sort of thing. They weren’t planning on a long term stay at that farm, but they needed to be as secure as possible for the immediate future. Nancy was doing better, which I was very pleased to hear, and they had also buried Bill. Mike had spent the day in bed recuperating. We talked a bit more, ironed out some wrinkles in The Plan, then said our goodbyes. I decided to grab a bite to eat before finishing “the gate,” which turned out quite nicely if I do say so
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