3 Ways to Keep from Dying from Stupidity

TV SCREENSHOT: When the government is painting signs like this on your neighbors' homes, you should try to leave.
TV SCREENSHOT: When the government is painting signs like this on your neighbors’ homes, you should try to leave.

“What was that sound?”

“I don’t know but it’s gone.”

Said no survivors ever.

This has been the frustration with AMC’s Fear the Walking Dead. The above is actual dialogue. And yes, I shouted at the TV screen.

For those who aren’t familiar, The Walking Dead deals with a world overrun by zombies. It began near Atlanta, as the local sheriff woke up in a hospital that already was overrun, and a group of tight-knit survivors now are winding their way in backroad fashion toward DC. The spinoff, Fear the Walking Dead, is set in a grimier section of LA and endeavors to tell the part of the tale we never saw, how our civilization disintegrated in the first place.

To those accustomed to swordplay and crossbows, the new show is much quieter. Slooower. Slower than TWD’s farm season. But worse than that, we just don’t think these people deserve to live.

Granted, they have been given a severe handicap. In their alternate reality, no one has ever seen a zombie movie or TV show. There is no talk of having to shoot people in the head. Only in the most recent episode has transmission by blood been mentioned.

But still. The same family members who dismissed the sound they heard decided at one point to run next door. There probably was a sidewalk or something they could have used, but no. They go through this winding wire-walled path that would be a maze if it were any longer. After encountering their “sick” zombified neighbor, they take that same route back.

But wait! That’s not all! (Imagine that in a Ginsu knife ad voice if you wish.)

While they’re at the neighbor’s house and looking back at theirs, they see something shuffle into the house. It eats their dog. How is this possible? They left. The door. Open.

Do people always think clearly in crisis situations? Of course not. Did they plan to return to the house? Yes.

The real kicker? They had seen Mr. Shuffles before they left. You’d think they’d want the outsider to stay out.

How else are they stupid? They think the government is there to save them.

As proof, I offer the sorta patriarch’s actual words when the National Guard arrives to seal off the neighborhood and not worry themselves about restoring niceties like medical care or phone service:

“The cavalry’s arrived. It’s gonna get better now.”

Of course it is. Because the government has unlimited resources to spread around covering your ass and couldn’t want anything in return.

There is a glimmer of hope when sorta matriarch – his girlfriend who sees the “protection” quite differently – slips the fence and does some poking around in the surrounding area. There are people who have been killed. Not all of them seem to have been ill. Hmmm…

But then she ruins it by staring at a dead guy in the road. He is dead-dead, not horror-show-oops-he’s-moving-now-dead. He has a handgun nearby.

Does she pick it up? NO. Maybe she’s freaked out. But she gets another chance, and she established earlier that she is fine with people learning about guns in times of need. Does she pick it up? STILL NO.

(Sigh.)

So let’s recap, just in case – bwahaha! I mean WHEN – evil befalls the world in whatever fashion. Want to dramatically increase your chances of survival, or at least that people you meet won’t trip you instead of letting you tag along? Follow these three simple steps:

  1. Shut doors. Keep what’s in in and what’s out out.
  2. The government will always save itself first. You are secondary, perhaps tertiary.
  3. Pick up weapons and ammunition you find. Even if you don’t know how to use them. Even if they don’t go together. Whacking someone/thing with an empty handgun is better than whacking it with your fist.

These people have two weeks to get a grip or get eaten. Right now I’m hoping for the latter.

Got tips? Got gripes (or praise) about the show? Chime in below.

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