Day 3.
Carl woke to the smell of eggs and the faint sound of Nana swearing at the radio.
It was 7:03 AM. The sunlight streamed through the floral curtains with an energy Carl didn't appreciate yet.
Ellie was curled under the quilt, one sock on, one sock off, drooling onto her dino plush like it had offended her dreams.
Downstairs, the kitchen clattered with the sound of survival: plates hitting countertops, a kettle whistling with war-crime intensity, and the occasional metal thunk—likely a pan being used as a disciplinary tool against whatever misbehaved.
Carl staggered down, hair like a hedge in protest.
Nana was dressed in cargo pants, a "Retired, Not Expired" T-shirt, and a utility belt that held, among other things, a pepper spray, a retractable spoon, and a notepad labeled "Stupid Decisions Log."
"You overslept," she said, not looking up from the skillet. "That's Rule #4."
Carl blinked. "Rule #4?"
She handed him a clipboard.
At the top, written in large block letters:
NANA'S SURVIVAL RULES (Updated for Idiots)
1. If it's dumb and works, it's not dumb.
2. Always wear pants. You can't run in shame.
3. Check the perimeter every morning.
4. Never oversleep. Zombies don't wait.
5. Trust dogs. Distrust influencers.
Carl stared. "This is laminated."
"Preparedness is next to godliness," she said, sliding a plate of eggs toward him. "Eat up. You're on perimeter duty in twenty."
Carl sat, still squinting. "Does this place actually get zombies?"
Nana flipped a second omelet with the grace of someone who once wrestled a raccoon for ownership of a compost bin. "Last week a scout wandered up the hill. Got caught in the 'welcome sprinkler.' Left looking like wet lasagna."
"That's… vivid."
"Welcome to the apocalypse."
---
Carl had exactly two sips of coffee before he was handed a pair of binoculars, a rusty gardening hoe, and a fanny pack full of trail mix.
"Don't eat it all," Nana warned. "That's your emergency stash."
Carl eyed the hoe. "Are we fighting zombies or potatoes?"
"Both, if they're rowdy."
Ellie stumbled downstairs ten minutes later, hair in a sideways ponytail that defied logic and gravity. She sniffed the air, saw the rule sheet on the table, and groaned.
"I didn't agree to rules," she mumbled.
"You agreed by surviving," Nana said. "Now pick your job."
On the whiteboard, titled "Daily Duties," were scribbled options:
Perimeter walk
Coop cleanup
Garden watering
Supply inventory
Nana's crossword assistant
"I call crossword!" Ellie shouted.
Nana snapped her fingers. "Taken. I'm doing it."
Ellie groaned louder.
So Ellie got the chicken coop.
Carl snorted. "Suckerrr."
"I hope a chicken pecks your soul," she hissed.
---
It turned out the coop wasn't that bad, but Ellie still escaped halfway through, wandered into the garden, and started naming vegetables.
"This zucchini is Kyle," she announced, stroking its side.
Then she heard a rustle.
From behind a tall row of sunflowers emerged a masked kid, maybe ten years old, wearing goggles, a hoodie with aluminum foil lining, and a Nerf gun strapped to each thigh.
"Who are you?" Ellie asked, holding her watering can like a weapon.
The kid squinted. "You're new."
"You're weird."
"I'm Toby. Nana lets me use her storm cellar to test theories."
Ellie blinked. "What theories?"
"That zucchini is probably sentient," he whispered. "And aliens are the cause of the outbreak."
She considered. "Okay. Can I name the corn?"
Toby nodded seriously. "Corn doesn't betray."
---
Meanwhile, Carl had been sent to "check on the shed," which really meant: fix the cursed door.
The thing hung off one hinge, squeaked like a haunted swing, and smelled faintly of vinegar and shame.
He found tools inside—a wrench shaped like regret, a hammer with duct tape on the handle, and some screws that might've been older than civilization.
An hour later, Carl had hammered his thumb three times, given the door a motivational speech, and managed to make the problem worse.
Carl returned to the house in defeat. The shed door now leaned at a disturbing angle, and his thumb was wrapped in a sad paper towel held together with tape.
Nana looked up from her crossword puzzle without lifting her head.
"So… we're building modern art now?"
Carl didn't answer. He opened the fridge, pulled out a bag of frozen peas, and plopped it on his hand with a grunt.
"That's what Rule #7 is for," Nana added.
Carl sighed. "Dare I ask?"
"Don't fix what you can't understand. You're a child of Wi-Fi. The hammer has rejected you."
He gave her a salute with the bag of peas and went to sit on the porch.
Outside, the wind was picking up. Leaves rustled. The trees danced gently. Somewhere, a squirrel dropped something heavy.
Then came the sound. A dragging foot. A low, drawn-out moan.
Carl stood, squinting down the dirt road.
A single zombie ambled into view.
It was pathetic-looking—part of its shirt was missing, one sneaker dangled from its foot, and it looked like it had lost a fight with a rake.
But it was still walking, groaning, making its way toward the house like it had a bad sense of direction and worse balance.
Carl tensed.
Nana didn't.
She calmly pressed a button built into the porch railing.
A burst of mist erupted from the bushes along the pathway. The sprinkler system hissed like a snake, spraying the zombie right in the face.
It slipped on the wet gravel, arms flailing like a wacky inflatable tube man, and toppled into the ditch beside the driveway.
Then came the sound.
From above the porch, an old speaker crackled to life. A recording played—Halloween audio from some long-forgotten cassette:
> "Beware… the house is haunted… MUAHAHAHA!"
"I SEE YOU WHEN YOU SLEEP."
"YOU CANNOT ESCAPE THE TOILET GHOST."
The zombie groaned again, clearly confused, maybe terrified, and limped away into the bushes, wet and slightly humiliated.
Carl stood there with his mouth open.
Ellie had come out at some point and now stood beside him, eyes wide.
"That," she said in awe, "was the coolest thing I've ever seen."
Nana appeared behind them, sipping tea like nothing happened. "Rule #12: Defend with dignity or absurdity. Whichever gets results."
"Can I set the traps next time?" Ellie asked.
"No," Carl said at the same time Nana said, "Yes."
Ellie beamed.
---
That evening, they gathered around the kitchen table for dinner. It was grilled cheese and tomato soup with a side of applesauce and smug victory.
Before eating, Nana cleared her throat.
"Let us pray," she said.
Carl blinked. "You pray now?"
"I pray every time I let a man with no skills handle my hammer."
She bowed her head, and with hands folded said: "Thank you, Lord, for this food, for canned peaches, and for family that isn't entirely useless."
Ellie added quietly, "Also thank you for the sprinkler of doom."
Carl raised his spoon. "To dignity and absurdity."
They clinked soup spoons.
---
After dinner, Carl washed dishes while Ellie tried to teach Toby how to play Uno. It didn't go well. Toby kept insisting the cards held hidden messages from the government.
Ellie, however, declared herself undefeated and wore a towel cape around the living room while Nana pretended not to notice.
At around 9:00 PM, the power blinked again—then returned thanks to the solar panels.
They lit lanterns anyway, just in case.
By then, the wind had quieted. The stars above blinked in full view, unbothered by light pollution or the worries of Earth.
Carl stepped out onto the porch again, this time with a mug of cocoa.
He looked out at the yard, the trees, the same gravel road from earlier.
No zombies. No noise. No helicopters. Just wind, insects, and faint laughter from inside the house.
Ellie came out after a while and leaned on his arm, wrapped in her towel-cape and holding her dino plush.
"Dad?"
"Yeah?"
"Rule #5 says to distrust influencers. Does that mean you?"
"I'm not an influencer."
"You posted food pics and said '#brunchvibes' twice last year."
Carl sipped his cocoa. "We don't talk about that."
"I forgive you."
They stood there for a bit longer. The stars twinkled like distant watchers, and the air smelled like grass and grilled cheese.
Ellie whispered, "I like Nana's house. It feels like zombies wouldn't want to bother."
Carl nodded slowly. "Yeah. Same."
He didn't say it out loud, but this was the first time since the outbreak started that he actually felt… okay.
Like the world had hit pause instead of collapse. Like maybe, just maybe, they could keep going. Not survive. Just… live.
And if that meant duct tape hammers, conspiracy kids, haunted sprinklers, and laminated rulebooks?
Honestly, it wasn't that bad.
---
End of Chapter 2 – Nana Has Rules
> "The apocalypse wasn't fought with guns or glory. It was survived with laminated checklists, haunted sprinklers, and grilled cheese."
---