Last Updated on by Michael Brockbank
Living in a bathroom isn’t all as bad as you might think. The keyword to remember here is “living.” Sure, the mind can play tricks on you in the dark. But it’s better than stepping outside where the nightmares can become instantly real. At this moment, the gas station is filled with the moans and groans of all those nightmares waiting for me to exit.
[adrotate banner=”8″] Because the dead are not the most intelligent predators, they can be easily fooled. I knew that as long as I didn’t make a sound, the zombies would simply walk away and look for their next target. In essence, a goldfish would have a better chance to memorize War and Peace than a zombie would have to find me. I just needed to remain silent for a while.
Although the room was almost completely dark, there was a bit of light seeping in from under the door. I could see the movements of the dead as they shifted around looking for something to pounce on. It was only a little sliver of light, but it was enough for me to get a sense of my surroundings. After a while of playing hide-and-seek in the bathroom, my pulse rate began to slow. I was safe, for the moment.
I ran my hand slowly down my leg until I found my knee. I carefully felt around the muscle and bone to see if it was broken. That was my biggest concern. A broken knee in a world where running is a prerequisite for survival would be bad. I winced a bit from the pain, but it didn’t seem to be broken or dislocated. I breathed a sigh of relief. I must have just sprained it or something. It wasn’t as painful as when I wrecked my bike when I was younger, so I knew it wasn’t too severe.
As slowly as I could, I unzipped a pocket on my bag. There was a bottle of pain killer that would help take the edge off of my knee, if I could get to it without making noise. The hard part would be to pick up the bottle and open it without the pills shifting around. To the dead walking around my little gas station, it would be a maraca pointing an arrow to the bathroom. With the zipper down, I inserted my hand into the pocket to reach for the bottle. I must have shifted something slightly because the bottle moved and I heard a muffled sound of the pills. I stopped, watching the light coming through the door to advise me if the dead heard that or not. The shadows moving about didn’t seem to be alarmed by the pain killer.
With the dexterity of a pick-pocket, I retrieved the bottle from it’s pouch and thought to myself, “Here’s the tough part.” Wrapping one hand around the bottle and the other around the lid, I pushed in and turned the cap as cautiously as possible. Finally, I was able to retrieve a few pills from the container. At this point, the adrenaline started to wear off and my knee began to throb. This was about to become a miserable experience.
I carefully dropped a few pills into my hand. The sound of the pills sliding was a little more than I would have liked, but it didn’t seem to draw attention. Once I popped the pills into my mouth, I proceeded to reverse the slow process of reattaching the cap and placing the bottle pack into my bag. At this point, the pills started to dissolve in my mouth, which left an awful taste. I tried to work up as much saliva as possible so I could at least swallow the pain killers. In the mean time, I worked on another pocket of my bag to pull out a plastic bottle of water.
Out of all the places I’ve been cornered in, this was the first time that I was stuck in a bathroom. It might not have been so bad if my knee didn’t hurt and there had been windows available. However, the lack of options for escape was also it’s more endearing quality. As long as the handle remained locked on this heavy metal door, I was going to be safe. A smile crept across my face in the dark as I pondered the idea of being known as the hermit in the bathroom. The only real concern I had was whether or not there were enough supplies to last for an extended visit. It wasn’t like I could order room service, and I doubted that my knee was going to heal inside the next few hours. I made a mental inventory of what I had available. The worst case scenario, I could survive several days with the food and water remaining in the bag. I wasn’t too concerned with dehydration since there was a toilet next to my head. A lot of people don’t realize that the reservoir on the back of a toilet can be used as a drinking source. Essentially, it’s clean water. Well, cleaner than the toilet bowl itself, anyway.
The hardest part about surviving a zombie apocalypse is keeping optimistic about tomorrow. It’s hard to stay positive when watching the world burn. If I held out for a day or two, the chances of getting away from this unscathed would be greater than if I immediately tried to hobble out the front door. Tomorrow could be a much better day, especially if my knee was willing to cooperate with me.
I slid my body slowly and silently across the floor and into a more comfortable position. With one foot held against the door to brace it from being opened, I laid back and stared up into the blackness of the bathroom ceiling. It was time to plan my escape. The routes I would take, imagining counter-measures if things go south, everything that could possibly happen ran through my mind. It’s all about planning and trying to adapt to bad situations. I was lucky this time because the bathroom didn’t have a previous occupant. When I leave my bathroom of solitude, I might not be so lucky. I remember thinking, “I’ve got to be more cautious about the stupid things, like stepping on something that could sprain a body part.”[template id=”416″]
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