In the event of a zombie apocalypse, I may well be doomed. Guns are illegal in this country, so there’s nowhere to stock up on weapons. I do have a long handled machete, though. (My dozens of swords are in deep storage back in the states, more’s the pity)
I could retreat up towards the volcano; I know the trails up there and there’s usually enough water, and a little bit of fruit grows on the native trees. Unfortunately, while the slopes of the volcano are uninhabited, it’s also covered with dense rainforest. I wouldn’t see a zombie coming until it was right on top of me. It’d be death for sure.
A better plan would be to try to commandeer one of the sailboats in the harbor. I’d take my snorkelling gear and drive towards the water. I can’t drive directly to the port, because the narrow roads in town are already hard to navigate. After a zombie attack, I’m sure they’d be blocked with burning cars and totally impassible. So I’d have to climb down the cliffs near my house and try to swim a few miles to the port. I could probably do it, if I wasn’t pressed for time. Once on the sailboat, assuming the real owners weren’t there, I could cast off and sail back up the coast. I’m perfectly capable of sailing, I used to do it as a kid. I would of course be surprised by a zombie stowaway, but I’d struggle with it while the boat bore down on some wicked looking rocks but eventually defeat it, possibly by wrapping the anchor cable around its leg and dropping the anchor overboard.
Having secured my survival, I’d be concerned for my wife. (Of course, I was concerned all along, but it makes a better film this way) I know what would happen. I’d sail up the coast to where she spends her time; at the university. It’s a veterinary university. The gross anatomy lab has about 100 dead animals in it, in various states of dissection…multiplied several times over for each semester that’s taken the class. I’d see my wife, on shore, being attacked by hundreds upon hundreds of shambling, intestine-dragging dogs and stumbling half-donkeys. I’d drop anchor and swim ashore. In a dramatic sequence, I’d use my machete to keep the dogs at bay, lopping their heads off left and right. My wife and I would return to the boat, and she’d fall into a deep sleep, safe at last…
Until the morning, when I’d awake to find her clawed fingers tearing at my skull. Some unnoticed bite, some little nick from the dogs, would have infected her. I’d be forced to kill her* and dump her body overboard. I’d then sit, alone on the deck, with blood dripping from the wounds my undead wife inflicted. As the boat sailed into the trackless blue of the sea, I’d be left to ponder the choice between suicide or eventual zombification.
*Anyone who watches a lot of movies knows that the wife always dies. It’s a rule.
But the thing to ask is do you know how to make a makeshift flamethrower, do you know how to use it and can you carry around those tanks and do you have enuf fuel to use?