If you made it to this chapter, pat yourself on the back. Actually, pat me on the back. I kept you alive for the length of this book. Let’s be honest: You’re as surprised as I am. Neither of us expected this guide to be useful. Maybe you got it as a gift from someone who hates you. Or perhaps you picked it up to see if anyone hollowed it out and hid a flask. But whatever the reason, twelve chapters later, you’re still with me, upright and breathing. Those extra minutes are nothing to scoff at. Too bad you spent them all reading this book.
It’s possible I don’t deserve all the credit for your survival—although I’m claiming it anyway. Maybe you’re still alive simply because nothing has had a chance to kill you. If the zombie apocalypse hasn’t reached your area yet, don’t get cocky. Soon you’ll have to put my strategies into practice. If you think my ideas sound bad now, wait until the survival of your family depends on them. I hope you read that panic section closely.
So let’s say the zombie apocalypse already happened. What’s next? That depends on your outlook on life. If you’re an optimist, you just have to keep your family alive until the world is up and running again. For the first time in history, people won’t exploit a worldwide tragedy for their personal gain. Instead, they’ll put aside their petty differences, slay all the zombies, and rebuild civilization with a new sense of camaraderie and purpose. Of course, it won’t all be easy. Your hand will hurt from too many high-fives, and you’ll lose your voice after the one millionth round of “Kumbaya.” To reach this future, all you’ll need to do is believe in humanity. And fairies, pixies, and unicorns.
If you’re a pessimist, you know the only time things stop being bad is when they get worse. Once civilization collapses, it’ll be gone for good. It was only held together by dental floss and glue in the first place. There’s no way to put it back together again. It’s outside the warranty period, and replacing it with a newer model isn’t in the budget. Once the world collapses, the hellish dystopia that takes its place will be here for good. That much should be obvious from the start. That’s why it’s called the zombie apocalypse, not the zombie temporary setback.
But even in the worst-case scenario, there’s an upside. If the world never bounces back, it’ll take the pressure off you as a parent. You won’t have to worry about your children competing with other kids socially or academically. Peer pressure will end with the deaths of their peers, and scholastic rivalries will be buried with them. There won’t be any more prestigious universities with a limited number of available slots. Instead, education will be more personal and practical. Teach your kids to do the basics—reading and writing for lists of punishment chores, counting for diaper trades, etc.—and they’ll be fine. Your parenting will be judged solely on a pass/fail basis. If your kids are still alive, you did a good job. And if they’re not alive, you still probably did a good job. There’s a 99 percent chance if they died, it’s their own fault. Remember that when you meet them again as zombies.
So what were you supposed to take away from this book? Probably nothing. If people were capable of learning from their mistakes, the world would be full of only children. So why did I write this guide at all? To be honest, I didn’t set out to help people. When I started this book, my motives were strictly financial. But now that I’ve finished it, well, my motives are exactly the same. Sorry if you expected me to have an epiphany. Writing a book didn’t make me a better person, just a slightly less poor one. If you want character growth, stick to the fiction section. Still, it makes me feel good to know you and your family survived because of me. Of course, if at some point you stop surviving, I’ll feel good, too. Then I can loot your stuff. In hindsight, giving away all these tips was a bad idea. All I did was help my competition.
