Chapter 2

  Sleeping on a hard metal roof is not easy, but my exhaustion eventually won out. I drifted in and out of consciousness, waking in the middle of the night with cramped legs and an incredibly sore body from the cold, unforgiving surface. I considered pulling my phone out of my backpack to check the time, but the thought of the light attracting more unwanted company stopped me. The night was chilly, and I regretted not packing more warm clothes.

  With stiff, sore hands, I rummaged through my bag for my bottle of miscellaneous medicines—a jumble of pills I might need. I found two of the strongest painkillers and washed them down with a few gulps of water. Closing my eyes, I waited for the relief to kick in.

  I scanned the area below, checking on the zombies to see if they had wandered off. The half-full moon cast enough light to reveal that their numbers had grown to ten, maybe eleven. With no immediate escape in sight, I lay back down, hoping to catch a few more hours of sleep.

  I wasn't sure if I truly slept, but the hours passed until I saw the faint outline of morning creeping in. Despite the painkillers and supposed rest, my legs felt like solid rocks. They hadn't been this bad since that brutal boot camp class I took to impress a girl. It was clear I needed to rest them for at least a day and stretch out the stiffness.

  So, I devised a plan: do nothing, make no noise, and hope that the unwanted guests would get distracted by some other unfortunate soul, giving me an opportunity to get off the roof. I would lie low, conserving my energy and waiting for a chance to escape.

  I had a few reservations about the plan. One was that my sleeping bag, with its bright red and blue colors, stood out like a beacon on the roof. The exposed layout offered no real cover. Nevertheless, I decided to lie in my sleeping bag, pulling my shirt over my head to see what the day would bring.

  Before dawn's light fully broke, I wanted to take inventory of my supplies. I had packed my daypack almost two weeks ago for a planned backcountry camping trip with a friend. Those plans were canceled, but I'd been too lazy to unpack. This turned out to be a godsend when I fled my apartment complex. Remembering that I might have packed a sleeping mat, I searched through my bag. To my relief, I found it and set it aside to self-inflate.

  As I started to unzip the compartments of my Osprey 75-liter ultralight backpack, I did it with the utmost care to stay quiet. My mind raced with thoughts. What if the zombies heard me? What if they didn’t leave? The weight of the situation pressed down on me as I pulled out each item.

  I needed to know exactly what I had. I laid everything out, creating three piles: must-have, nice-to-have, and could-leave-behind. As I sorted, my thoughts drifted to how quickly everything had changed. Just weeks ago, I was planning a camping trip, excited about the adventure. Now, every piece of gear felt like a lifeline.

  I found a small stash of protein bars, a few packs of instant noodles, and a water filtration system. I also had a flashlight, extra batteries, a first-aid kit, and a multi-tool. Each item had a purpose, a potential to help me survive another day.

  Pulling out a small notepad and pencil, I started making a list of my supplies. Writing things down helped me focus, gave me a sense of purpose. My hands shook slightly as I scribbled, the reality of my situation never far from my mind. The sky was beginning to lighten, and soon I would see what the day had in store.

  As I thought about the piles of stuff I was making, I reminded myself of the rule of threes: three minutes without air, three hours without adequate shelter, three days without water, and three weeks without food. Unfortunately for me, I seemed to have stocked up mostly on food. I was in charge of bringing extra snacks and two meals for my friend, who was going to carry the tent.

  Air was covered for now. Being high up on the roof, far from other structures, reduced the risk of fire and smoke. For cover, I had a poncho with eyelets in the corners that could be turned into a makeshift tarp. Though my shelter options were limited, the start of summer meant the weather was on my side.

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  I checked my water supply: a three-liter Platypus Camelback nearly full and a one-liter Nalgene bottle that was almost empty. If I rationed carefully, I could stretch that for a few days. For food, I had eight freeze-dried meals, a kilogram of trail mix, and other small snacks.

  I was well aware that water was my most pressing concern. I made a mental note to conserve it as much as possible and keep an eye out for any potential sources. The thought of running out of water in a few days added a new layer of urgency to my situation.

  The sun began to rise, casting a faint light over the landscape. I glanced over the edge of the roof, assessing the area for any movement. The zombies still wandered below, but they hadn’t noticed me yet. I knew I had to remain vigilant and quiet, hoping that today would bring some opportunity for a more secure refuge.

  The rule of threes was a good framework, but I realized I needed to adapt. The presence of zombies changed everything. Shelter wasn’t just about protection from the elements anymore; it was about staying hidden and safe from an ever-present threat. Water and food remained crucial, but so did silence and invisibility.

  As I started pulling out items, I realized just how much of a gadget guy I was. Anything survival-related with a cool twist immediately caught my interest. My small YouTube channel, where I demoed products after testing them out in the woods for a week, had fueled this obsession. This had led to an accumulation of tons of miscellaneous gear—much of which I never should have brought. The weight of these items could have easily gotten me killed during my escape. Every ounce equals pounds, I reminded myself, and every pound could mean the difference between survival and disaster.

  Each piece of gear I extracted from my bag told a story of my fascination with innovative survival tools. The water filtration system was next, a marvel of engineering that turned murky pond water into something drinkable. My multi-tool had more attachments than I could name, each one adding to its heft but also to its utility.

  Despite their ingenuity, many of these items now seemed more of a burden than a boon. The collapsible fishing rod and the magnesium fire-starting kit, once essential for my YouTube adventures, now felt like excess baggage. The hand-crank emergency radio, which I had praised for its reliability, seemed frivolous in the face of real danger.

  As I continued to sort through my gear, I couldn't help but chuckle at my past self—eager to showcase the latest gadgets, never thinking I'd be in a situation where their weight could slow me down.

  Leatherman—must pile. Headlamp—must pile. Camping stove and fuel—must pile. Small carving knife—must pile. Collapsible trekking poles—must pile. Lighter—must pile. Matches—must pile. Candle—must pile. Paracord—must pile. Fishing line and hooks—must pile. The extra tent pegs? They went straight into the don’t-need pile. Chemical hand warmers and wet wipes were demoted to the leave-behind pile. This was fucking hard. I hadn’t even gotten to most of my expensive gear like my GPS and brand-new smartphone. My pricey wireless headphones, which once seemed indispensable, now sat in the nice-to-have pile. But what I definitely noticed was that I was missing all my clothing.

  I usually had a dry sack filled with wool socks, underwear, extra pants, a down vest, a fleece sweater, a windbreaker, and rain gear. But the weather last week hadn’t called for any rain, so I’d skipped packing the rain stuff. Plus, I had needed some of the clothes. Too lazy to do laundry, I’d pulled the clothing out last week to use the clean underwear form my backpack. Now, I only had the clothes I was wearing and one set of socks, underwear, and a shirt that I’d rolled up in a Ziploc bag and kept in one of the outside pockets in case I needed a quick change of clothing.

  The irony hit me hard—here I was, a survival gear enthusiast, overburdened with gadgets but woefully short on basics. I rummaged through my pack again, hoping I’d somehow missed a spare shirt or pair of socks. No such luck. The reality of my situation was clear: I had to make do with what I had, and that meant prioritizing survival essentials over my fascination with tech.

  With the sun rising, casting its warm glow over the landscape, I felt the weight of my decisions pressing down on me. Survival wasn’t just about having the coolest gear; it was about making smart, pragmatic choices with what was available. Each item in my must-have pile now seemed more precious, a lifeline.

  I packed all the stuff I was going to take with me and used the Ziploc bag that had stored my extra clothes to collect all the items I planned to leave behind. I didn't want them rolling down and making a racket. The mat was now inflated, so I slid it under my sleeping bag, then took a quick stock of myself before trying to rest for the day.

  In the distance, I could see figures moving—too far to be an immediate threat but close enough to keep me on edge. The morning light was getting brighter, and I didn't want to attract more company. The plan was simple: rest during the day and make my escape in the evening.