[ WP ] You are a immortal during the zombie apocalypse , During the apocalypse the zombies ignore you and you try to live a normal life during the outbreak .

*'' BRRRRRRIIIIIINNNNNNNGGGGGGG! `` * 
 
 Shit. 
 
 *'' BRRRRRRIIIIIINNNNNNNGGGGGGG! `` * 
 
 Jesus Christ, my head. 
 
 *'' BRRRRRRIIIIIINN-****SMASH****'' * 
 
 A sudden crash followed by a metallic rainstorm of gears and springs on the hardwood floor. My personal cock-a-doodle-doo. 
 
 My toes poked out underneath the fluffy, hot-pink comforter. Cold. They retreated back into their lair. 
 
 *Get up*. 
 
 No. 
 
 *Get UP. * 
 
 NO. 
 
 *You do this every morning. * 
 
 I'm serious this time. 
 
 *No, you're not. * 
 
 Am too. 
 
 *You're stalling, just like every morning, because its cold. * 
 
 But its **really** cold today. 
 
 *Its been* ***really*** *cold for four months in a row. Get over it. You lay in bed for an hour every damn morning, thinking some magical El Nino hurricane's gon na blow in from the east and turn this tundra into a tropical, 82 degree paradise with palm trees and a breeze. But it never has, it never will, so quit bitching and get your lazy, whiny, do-nothing ass out of the bed. * 
 
... 
 
 *Too much? * 
 
 Little bit. 
 
 *Sorry. * 
 
 It's ok. 
 
 The hardwood floor felt like the inside of an igloo. I trudged over to the fireplace, slipped on an oven mitt ( made that mistake before ), hoisted the metal trashcan off the still simmering coals, and trudged into the bathroom. Two large hooks jutted out above the tile at the top of the shower. Hooking the trash can into place, I slid a spaghetti strainer handle-first into a hole in the wall where a shower head usually protruded. I ripped that out my second day here while McGyvering the brilliant contraption suspended above my head. 
 
 Slipping out of an equally hot-pink robe, even fluffier than the comforter on the bed, I stepped into the shower and unscrewed the cap I'd attached to the bottom of the trash can. Hot water sprayed down on me, steaming up the glassy walls of the shower and filling it with a steamy fog. Worked to perfection. Best idea I'd had since jimmying the lock on the front door of the Worthington mansion back in the beginning of Fall. 
 
 Ok, today's agenda. Running a bit low on food, I should take the bike down to Wal-Mart. 
 
 *Ca n't beat those prices. * 
 
 Technically, I can. Free beats everything. 
 
 *Technically, you do n't know what a joke is. * 
 
 Do too. Just is n't funny after the twelve-hundredth time. 
 
 *Yes it is. * 
 
 You need new material. 
 
 **Technically**, *that's on you. * 
 
 I sighed. Ok, Wal-Mart. Get some tofu, some nuts, more bottled water, few cases of beer, gas for the stove, some of that Hamburger Helper, that stuff was delicious... 
 
 *Alarm clock. * 
 
 Alarm clock. Anything else? 
 
 *Pet food? * 
 
 There wo n't be any food for them there, maybe I can find some in the rec center. 
 
 *Go there first. * 
 
 Ok. 
 
 The water stopped. 
 
 I stepped out, dried myself, brushed my teeth, and walked into the bedroom at the end of the long hallway outside my door. I'd forgotten to throw the contents of the bucket out the night before and the smell hit me in the face like a crowbar. 
 
 *Mmm, Hamburger Helper. * 
 
 I mentally crossed that delicacy off my grocery list, picturing the little white glove frowning in my direction. Sorry guy. I got dressed and headed towards the kitchen. It was Sunday. My first few Sundays on my own were what I called Denny's Days. I cooked bacon, ham, eggs, hashbrowns, grits, waffles, the whole nine yards. As time passed though, eggs disappeared from the Denny's Day menu, followed by the bacon and ham. Denny's Days were a thing of the past just like its namesake. I wolfed down a bowl of dry cereal and a cold pop-tart. Frosted strawberry. 
 
 I brushed the crumbs from my beard as I entered the garage. As always, the deep blue Porsche taunted me seductively.'Just hop in. It's nice and cozy, these are real leather seats, you know. Just give my shifter a little squeeze. Who knows, maybe the gasoline fairy came in the middle of the night? You'll never know unless you try big boy.' 
 
 Bitch. How do you leave a car parked in the garage with no gas? Boggles the mind. Throwing my leg over my white-and-silver Yeti mountain bike ( a strong consolation prize. Sorry for calling you a bitch, Ms. Carters-Worthington ), I started towards the front of the neighborhood. 
 
 I'd lived here since August, and the sheer size of the houses continued to amaze. The oddest thing was that the majority of residents were n't even families. Just old, white people with too much money, as well as the occasional generational gap-defying romance. My lovely hosts, Ms. Carters-Worthington and her beloved geriatric Gerald, fell into the second category. 
 
 *I ai n't saying she a gold digger-* 
 
 I rolled my eyes. 
 
 *But she ai n't messing with no broke ni-* 
 
 Stop it. 
 
 *What? It's not like there's any of them around to hear it. * 
 
 Does n't make it ok. 
 
 *I thought it was ok if we said it in a rap. * 
 
 Nope. Still racist. 
 
 *Damn. * 
 
 Weaving in and out of the frozen caravan of long-abandoned cars, my feet slowly warmed up from the pedaling. I'd lost more than a few bike tires to the piles of broken glass that dotted the asphalt, so I slowed my pace as I entered the crowded center of town. Cars covered every street, even hanging over the curbs and jutting into the grass. This was intentional. The wall aimed to seal off passage to the large, three story rec center where the surviving residents of Cooper's Lake's made their last stand. I wheeled into the parking lot, hopped off, and leaned my bike against an old Honda CR-V. 
 
 The entryway of Lake Center, if it still qualified as such, now resembled a termite mound, its tunnels intertwining to form a jagged hole of twisted metal and broken glass leading inside. I imagined the townspeople, frenzied, panicked, frantically piling chairs, desks, workout equipment, whatever they could find against the door. Their attempt was scattered about the atrium, fanning outwards from the makeshift doorway. 
 
 I crawled through. This suburban Wounded Knee was one of the more successful fortresses I'd seen. Their barricade stood for quite a while, judging by the number of skeletons outside. Of course, you could n't easily tell the difference between their skeletons or real human skeletons, but I'd spent a lot of time examining the pile over the last few months. Unless a sniper specializing in headshots lived in Cooper's Lake with over 200 rounds of ammunition and a penchant for mass murder, the mounds of bones outside, lacking a single intact skull anywhere, painted a pretty clear picture. Besides, pieces of grey flesh still clung to the occasional rib and shoulder blade. That was their uniform. 
 
 I kept walking. Most of the bodies inside had n't decomposed as throughly, shielded from the worst of the elements by the sturdy walls of the Lake Center. Some had busted craniums matching their friends outside. There were also other skeletons inside, their condition pristine compared to their counterparts. Picked clean, not a scrap of flesh left. So white they almost shined in the pale light from the skylight above. 
 
 *Spooky, scary-. * 
 
 Shut up. Seriously. 
 
 *Lighten up. * 
 
 I climbed the stairs. This place was so big, had so many workout rooms and offices, I had n't even come close to mapping it out. I cleared the downstairs last month, but I had n't set foot here. Not many bodies, human or otherwise. Good sign. Stairs are n't the easiest for them. If only a few got up here, I had a good chance of finding what I was looking for behind one of these doors. Long, white scratches crisscrossed the walls of the hallways. It was the most intensely covered doors that interested me. I could skip the ones left untouched. Nobody had hidden there. I pulled out my screwdriver and went to work. That was one clear flaw in their plan of attack. No finesse. 
 
 *Imagine those things, all carrying screwdrivers. Terrifying. * 
 
 How is that worse? 
 
 *They have screwdrivers! * 
 
 So? 
 
 *So, they're, I do n't know, sharp! They could stab people! * 
 
 If they could stab people, why would they pick a screwdriver to do it? 
 
 *You ruin all my ideas. * 
 
 Technically... 
 
 Fuck you. 
 
 I smiled, twisted the last screw out of its hole and slid the door off its hinges. A pile of desks stared back at me. This was my favorite part. I always felt like Godzilla tearing through the streets of San Francisco, toppling building after building after building. 
 
 *Raaaawwwrrr!!! * 
 
 Without the door to steady it, my monsterous attack easily sent the hastily made fortification crashing to the ground. Carefully stepping over the wreckage, I glanced around the room. A classroom, by the looks of it. Projector, whiteboard, shelves lined with books. 
 
 *Also the desks were a clue. * 
 
 A large metal cabinet stood against the back wall, alone, closed, with no sign of damage. Fingers crossed, I twisted the handle and swung it open. 
 
 **WAH-THUMP. ** 
 
 I grinned. The body landed face first on the purple carpet, a pistol clattering to the ground beside it. I bent down, scanning the arms and legs for bite marks. Finding none, I pulled the clothes off and flipped it over. All clear, no bite in sight. Excellent. She'll work perfectly. Pulling a hand saw from my backpack, I went to work. 

