Five-second distraction.

My friend and I had decided that the best place to be in case of a zombie outbreak here in Bismarck would be Captain Jack’s liquor store. Few windows, solid structure, small balcony on second floor for defense purposes, nearly endless Molotov cocktail possibilities, and, if things went badly, you could drink yourself to oblivion.

I spend an inordinate amount of time scoping out the landscape and planning for such an event.

It’s so stupid.

I have no idea why I do this.

At work recently, after boring my co-workers with a summarized lecture on the architectural history of the arch (from post and lintel to corbeled to romanesque, and onward!), I decided to enthrall them with zombie survival information.

Oddly, it was well-received.

I pointed out some places one would want to avoid (e.g. the hospital). I made note of weaknesses in my own dwelling. I suggested additional buildings that might be of value (the library looks pretty solid, as does the movie theater).

I made note of some useful literature that I personally own and have read.

I mentioned that I frequently scoped out people and put them into categories of “useless in a zombie attack” and “possessing useful skills and good to have around in a zombie attack.”

At that moment, a woman walked by the shop. I pointed out her high-heeled shoes. “That, my friends, is a woman who would be lunch,” I said. “I make a point to never wear shoes that I can’t make a getaway in except for rare occasions when I’m out for an evening of fun. I take a chance even then, sure, but for daily wear…absolutely not.”

Would you want to know, in your final seconds, that if your shoes had only been two inches shorter, you might have lived?

We discussed the benefit of having friends who could do useful things should a group be trying to survive in the near anarchy conditions. Someone who could cook (and not some Food Network chef crap — I mean cook, as in field dress an animal and put it on a skewer) would be necessary. People who are good at tracking, defense, firearms, battle conditions, and aren’t fussy would also be useful. Perhaps a tech person. Definitely someone good with cars and machines. Someone with medical knowledge. Perhaps an herbalist, too. Most assuredly, fussy germophobes need not apply.

We began discussing our own usefulness factor, and came out fairly well in some areas, weak in others. All in all, as a team, we complimented each other’s strengths and weaknesses well. I was feeling better about a theoretical daytime outbreak with my co-workers on my team.

We then began discussing a certain type of person that we see periodically, a person who is fussy about ridiculous things and seemingly unable to get perspective on what is really something to gripe about and what is just inconsequential.

The fussy female. The complainer. The “I wanted my butter warmed up” kind of person.

Initially, my thought was that such people should be avoided at all costs, as they would only serve to slow us down. But, upon further discussion, we began to see the benefit of collecting such individuals who might be wearing impractical shoes on a daily basis and not be carrying a decent skill set with them into anarchy. They would, for lack of a better term, be an excellent five- to ten-second distraction.

With enough of such individuals, we could make a getaway while the zombies were distracted with the “bread crumbs” we were leaving behind.

We have also talked about the isolated and defensive housing structures we’d like to build for ourselves up in the mountains someday, a topic that stems from too much retail work.

I’m already working up some schematics.