My plan for Zombie Apocalypse was flawless.
I’d packed a bag with rations, rifle, ammunition and crowbar (a bludgeon that could crush skulls AND a useful all-purpose tool) and left it by my home’s door.
I’d memorized a route from the city that’d avoid refugee hubs (hospitals, malls, churches) that less prepared survivors would swarm.
And a few hundred miles north, my fortified cabin waited, with food for the winter and a garden in the spring.
I was ready, and justifiably proud of the prep-work I’d done.
The only thing I hadn’t accounted for was being patient zero.