The Tor.com staff has survived Zombie Week, but how well would we do against a zombie invasion here at HQ? Well, we got inventive, looked around for stuff that we could set on fire, and now we feel ready to take on undead of all kinds—we’ll be bashing in heads with T-squares in a Lemonhead-fueled rage when the zombies come to town!
I think my office will do fairly well when the zombieocalypse hits publishing. Clearly my best defense is to simply lay still like a flounder and hope they don’t see me. But if I have to fight...
Spray mount: sticky and flamable.
Spray snow is “attention: ce contenant peut exploser s’il est chuffe.” Says so right on the label. And it doubles as a communication device:
Bestine, also flammable. And so toxic it can give cancer to the undead.
...and now even I’m wondering how my office became such a toxic waste dump.
Lots of #11 xacto blades.....but I’m really hoping not to get close enough to use them.
My darts are cheap-ass and falling apart but I’m not be above running upstairs and stealing the 15th floor’s better darts.
With no disrescpect meant, anyone who has carried a Chesley Award knows that it weighs more than a large dog and can easily brain living and dead alike.
Heavy artbooks to drop on heads?
Going out into the lobby...This fire hose will be helpfull in beating the zombies down our single chimney-like stairwell.
And when the Flatiron falls and we need to book, I have my Xootr getaway scooter.
And.....oh yeah, did I mention the katana?
Hm. Okay: since we don’t really have any smokers on the staff, and I never got into the whole Girl Scout thing, I think fire is going to be a problem. Unless somebody’s been secretly stockpiling lighters somewhere, the best I can do under threat of imminent zombie attack is pray that some latent pyrokinetic abilities kick in, allowing me to go all Carrie on the undead hordes.
Other than that vague hope, I have to admit that I don’t have very many handy survival tools in my office, unless the zombies are easily distracted by Star Wars Pez dispensers and xkcd comics. The hulking Conan statue next to my monitor is pretty heavily armed, but he’s more of a mascot than a potential weapon, unfortunately.
On the other hand, I have a humongous box of Lemonheads, not to mention a pretty impressive supply of unused soy sauce packets taking up a drawer in my desk. So I guess my plan would be to grab a jug of water, a few good books, and my food supply and head up to the roof of the Flatiron (which can only be reached by a narrow metal ladder—it’s a pretty convenient choke point, assuming the zombies can even figure out how to make it to the roof in the first place). I’m not sure how long I can survive on Lemon-Soy-Head Disaster Soup, but at least I’d be enjoying an amazing view of Manhattan while it lasts…
I am utterly doomed should zombies swarm the Flatiron Building. Megan and I share a working space, but in terms of desk clutter we are opposites. I have small orderly inboxes and a minimum number of books whereas she has a pile of stuff so massive and intricate that it has attained self-awareness. [Hey. I need all that. -M]
I have nothing to draw from for my own defense, basically. My bag is of no help, unless zombies are really, really scared of iPod shuffles, paperbacks, and allergy medicine.
I really need to win more awards/hoard more ARCs. This is the most offensive weapon on my desk.
They’re in for such a pincering!
There are plenty of smokers in the building, so between lighter fluid and the chem lab that is Irene’s office (and all the, um, paper sitting around), we probably have enough accelerants to get a good blaze going in the lone stairwell. The defense of the Flatiron is all about, as Bridget said, choke points; we have to we take out the stairwell and disable the elevators by shoving office chairs in the doors (it’s doubtful that the zombies will be able to use elevators, but you never know what residual memories of office work will remain). After we all make it up onto the roof, we can coat the iron ladder with peanut butter to stop them coming up. While they’re trying, we can drop awards on their heads, or coat them in spray-mount and drop a burning twist of paper down. And there are so many Flatiron employees with a jar of organic peanut butter and a spoon stashed in a desk-drawer that a) it’s a little depressing and b) we should have enough left over to snack on after we’re done with the ladder.
And then we just need to use Wite-Out to write “HELP. You will NEED publishing professionals to rebuild the world!” on the roof and wait for a helicopter to come get us.
Liz is totally set.
Disdaining Fortune, with his brandished steel, which smoked with bloody execution, like valor’s minion Patrick carves him out a passage....
...but all’s too weak...!
Pictures from the forthcoming account of the apocalypse, They Came For the Hugo Winners.