From 2015. Zombier times:
Zombie talk used to be reserved for the counterculture. That counterculture could pop up at places like lunch tables for nerds or my parents’ basement. But what used to be a cultish niche has leaked into the mainstream, so much so that one of the most popular shows on TV takes place in a world overrun by walking corpses. Years ago, zombie chats were for pale introverts with little interest in locker rooms or hunting shacks, but with the success of The Walking Dead, popularity is starting to work in the favor of nerds.
However, when it comes to enduring the carnage of zombies running amok, being a nerd is a drawback. Unlike Resident Evil, I never got into rugged pursuits such as hunting and fishing. My stance is that I can buy meat from a store or restaurant without going to all the trouble of killing and gutting some animal. It makes sense to me, but I must admit, should tomorrow be fraught with mayhem, anarchy, and zombies, I have almost no survival skills. I'd be screwed.
But I do have friends who hunt, fish, and most importantly, own guns. They tend to lack strong feelings about The Walking Dead. Usually, they have better things to do than game plan strategies about something hypothetical that has to do with monsters. When I was out playing laser tag in high school, they were shooting holes in the guts of bucks. I'm at peace with that, but the moment I spot the mailman eating a data entry clerk, I know I'll be searching for a friend with guns.
I may have to beg to be a part of a group with firearms. But I will have a lot of tactical ideas to offer that group. Far too much thought on the matter of zombies has made me realize the best place to survive a hellish ordeal like that. And I'll soon tell you what I'd do and where I'd go, as long as you promise to keep it a secret.
Once I got a pal to let me join their posse, I'd grab my aluminum bat and dash straight to my car. I’d use my quick feet to avoid trouble, only swinging when necessary. Home runs are exciting, sure, but it's easier to hit a single to ensure you'll be safe. At my pal's house, I'd probably get the lowdown on hunter safety, everything from "don't point this thing at me” to “blah blah blah.” Then I'd cock my shotgun just 'cause it looks and sounds cool and declare to my team of survivors:
“We're going to Miller Park.”
(This name has been changed to American Family Field. I’m not gonna call it that. PS, I would accept Miller High Life as a sponsor.)
When fleeing Fond du Lac, the home of the Milwaukee Brewers will be my safe haven from the dreaded z-words. Some reasons for claiming a stadium are clearer than others, so let me expound on Miller Park's resume as a doomsday sanctuary. For protective purposes, the place contains fences at every major entrance. Its barriers against predators are plentiful, and its rising bleachers offer easy access to higher ground. In emergencies, even higher ground can be taken by snipers on catwalks as well as in Bernie's Dugout atop that winding yellow slide.
Sanitation and living conditions are made suitable by the ballpark's spacious locker rooms, which include showers and bathrooms. Who wouldn't want to store their stuff in the old locker of a once-living All-Star, or bathe away all that splattered blood in a hot tub powered by a generator? In addition, a number of luxury boxes and offices permit the kind of comfort most humans wouldn't dare dream of during an onslaught of dumb, psychotic cadavers.
The food horde is astounding, and that power generator proves its worth in the kitchens, too. Miller Park's stadium guide cites over two-dozen restaurants and bars. Whether you prefer to gorge on a stockpile of hot dogs, bratwursts, Polish and Italian Sausages, hamburgers, nachos, pizzas, soft pretzels, grilled cheese sandwiches, waffled and cheese fries, or that make-shifted hamburger/ grilled cheese double-decker the snobby vendor never agrees to cook, you'll soon be so happily plump the zombies at the gates will drool at you the way I drool at the sight of Maggie Greene in season two of The Walking Dead. (Shoutout to the picture! Now don’t you be distracting me, Beautiful, cuz I got a story to finish.)
As a more daring and fun alternative, ballpark survivors are free to find out once and for all how long they could last on a strict diet of beer and peanuts.
You can stuff your face with those once-overpriced brats and nachos for a while, but for a renewable source of food, the outfield has to offer over three acres of natural grass for farming. As an aside, remember to raid a small town's Walmart en route to Milwaukee for supplies--including fertilizer, seeds, and gardening tools. Granted, vegetables are not as tasty as burgers and growing crops seems kinda dull, but renewable food is a must. And on the bright side, broccoli can be dipped in nacho cheese. (Still not sold about farming veggies? OK, you know rakes? Well, they can be used to impale zombie skulls.) To further boost agriculture, Miller Park is outlined by towering planes of glass to facilitate sunlight. Natural grass will grow even when the roof is closed.
That retractable roof will be useful throughout inclement weather and, of course, the long winters, and get this: the seating area is warmed by up to 30 degrees when Miller Park transforms into its cocoon state. Meanwhile, zombie Ryan Braun and all the other staggering ghouls outside the Park will have their bad intentions slowed down by snowfalls and icy sidewalks.
Other perks to consider when the walkers come to devour us all include security-staff weapons: nightsticks and pepper spray, holding cells and handcuffs, and scores of baseball bats. (BTW, if there's a Henry Aaron bat in a display case somewhere, I call dibs.) Consider more perks like sprinklers and lots of outdoor fun, escalators to mess with the zombies, and in the announcer's booth, a joke-gift of Major League on DVD that Bob Uecker never bothered to unwrap.
Perhaps the best thing of all is a footnote. Imagine going on a rescue mission to save a loved one, or a kick-ass dog you barely know, and advancing with four friends across the parking lot in a blaze of bullets and bashed cranium, only to be swarmed by more of the undead. See their teeth chomping at your throat with endless malice.
And imagine overcoming that carnage, your rescued teammate or dog in tow. You retreat into the stadium unscathed. Everyone takes off their safety-feature costumes: Brat, Hot Dog, Italian, Polish, and Chorizo.
I can think of no better way to survive.
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