[ RF ] Based on what you do as work/hobby , describe your survival in a zombie apocalypse .

I put down Thayer's guidebook on foraging and took a peek over my makeshift barricade of unwanted Danielle Steele novels. All clear for now but I know my luck will run out soon. I glanced down at my barricade, hundreds of copies of'Power Play','Winners','Pegasus', and'A Perfect Life' in overlapping stacks. It would be enough to turn away any living person but the undead, it would barely slow them down. What I needed was a pallet of Math books, thick and impenetrable, but I had to make do with what I had. 
 
 My living space was about twenty feet square wedged at the crossroads of fiction and popular science. Fires were dangerous here but I did n't need Rob Stark's face peering at me from the cover of'Storm of Swords' to know the inevitable. I tore a few pages from the SAS survival guide to feed the flames. It seemed fitting. As I warmed my hands on the meager fire and watched the smoke gently curl upwards I heard a faint shuffling from biographies. Damn it, hardly anyone makes it past the top 10. 
 
 There it was, an eerie terror staring at me from beyond the grave. I steeled myself and looked past Charles Moore's biography of Thatcher to the zombie a few paces further down. The beast shuffled inexorably onwards past'Washington: a Life', past'Nikola Teslsa', a few steps and it was down to the G's, that was my cue. One step past'Ghandi' by Ghandi and it was in my killzone. I hurled a copy of Chirs Hadfield's'You are Here' sidearm, the spinning corner of the hardback taking the zombie in the jaw. I hurdled my Steele wall and launched the cumulative works of the Bronte sisters into the zombie midsection. The zombie toppled backwards, living or dead nothing can stomach that much 19th Century literature. I stood over the helpless creature and finally put it out of its misery. A 624 page annotated copy of James Joyce's'Ulysses' finally destroying the creatures brain.
