Kinda short but I love this idea!

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There's a lot to consider when trying to survive a zombie outbreak. Certain stores are a great idea but everyone else thinks those are a great idea too. Army surplus stores, supermarkets pharmacy's, hardware stores... with all the humans rushing around, those places are more like zombie buffets.

With a stroke of luck, your friends realise you're right. Everyone is scared of course but you send them out on a few missions to find what you need from the less popular places. The local gym that has a cafe in it? Should be uncontested for food! The pet store? Food options, animals to liberate and medication that can be used on humans too! There's even a nearby factory owned by Coca Cola that's sure to be full of some kind of human friendly liquid.

The best one of all? The local Medieval Times!

That's the place you're rushing to. Of course, no one else seems to have though of it and there's not many zombies around this area yet. Rushing inside, you grab enough chainmail, armour and weapons for your group. Even as you make trips back to the car, there's no one around. You have time to get real blades and practice blades, strong gauntlets that zombies can't bite through, shields and other brilliant medival weaponry.

Bullets can run out but a quality sword can be sharped!

Checking the kitchens, there's plenty of food to take. There's even booze! You get what you need and leave the rest for some other hopeful looters. The horses and birds of prey are gone but you don't know how to ride a horse anyway.

Feeling smug, you head back home with your loot. Maybe it's even worth bringing the group to live in the Medival Times castle? You think that sounds like a good idea as you go back to meet your friends with their loot.

"They're coming," said Carl. We could smell the putrid, rotten smell a mile away, and were able to avoid it. Until now. Those filthy walking corpses cornered us inside the supermarket. There was no escape. We had to fight.

"There's too many," whispered Maria. "We don't have enough bullets."

"I know," Carl replied. He looked down. John had perished at the hands of the zombies right as it all started, even with him always preparing for a situation like this. Now it was just us three, with no formal training, against a horde of undead.

They readied their guns, but did not make a move. I standed up.

"Mike, get down!" Carl said. The zombies saw me and started walking.

"Nay," I said, drawing my sword and shield. "Thy guns may only attract more of those foul beasts. Leaveth this to me."

With careful steps I approached the ghouls. They growled. In a single slash I dropped the head of one. Then another, and another. Soon, however, they jumped me. My shield blocked some, but not enough. One managed to bite my shoulder.

Carl and Maria closed their eyes. Even dead, its teeth were still strong enough to pierce flesh. But not metal. I threw the monster on the ground and took off my shirt, showing my mail to all.

"Fools," I said, "mine armor shalt not fall to thy wretched jaws!" I slashed through more and more of the dead. My blade did not dull even after a dozen slashes. All tried and failed to pierce my armor. They fell one by one.

When it ended, I kneeled. My body took a toll even without the bite of those demons.

"Mike," my friends called, "are you okay?"

"Aye, friends," I replied. "As long as thou art safe."

They helped me get u and we walked to our shelter. Another day survived. Another battle in the tale of Sir Michael.

Fools. Pathetic. Army surplus stores? Loser.

My time has come. I was chosen by heaven. This specific scenario. I had it all played out in my mind. Often I would mind my business and imagine how I'd save the day if a zombie apocalypse broke out. Don't you fear, for I am here.

The first thing I do is stacking chainmail and blades. What numerous simulations taught me was, that guns were too loud and would attract the masses. I've seen enough MMA clips on Youtube to be confident that I could fend them all off, but it would look way more heroic, if I just sliced through them from the get go. Also a fullbody chainmail protects your whole body.

This war of mine showed me, that while canned food was quick and practical, I'd need some sustainable food source. But don't worry pal. Thanks to grounded I can proudly call myself a gardening expert. A few hours is all it will take to harvest plentiful.

As for a fortress? Hah, hours of Anno qualify me as an engineer. I will build a whole city. You guys are safe with me. I'll be a wise ruler. Through my experience as reddit mod I am great fit for this job.

Yours truly

Your average edgy teenager

With the wind rushing past my face, I screamed “FOR FORT GERALD!!!!” as I tore down a hill on the back of a shopping cart, covered in full dyed leather armor with “FORT GERALD” in all caps written on the back. I also carried a long halberd in one hand as i sped towards a shambling figure at the bottom of the hill, a monster i had taken to calling a zombie. Whoever it used to be, it wasn't human anymore, so i had very little remorse when i smashed the hammer end of my weapon into its cranium at mach speed. I slid the cart to a stop with a slight screech as the wheels scraped against the pavement I looked up at the broken sign in front of me, with one of the letters gone it spelled “WALL MA T” so, i had adequately dubbed it, the wall mat.
Should i continue dis? i might

It all started on a Sunday afternoon. The weather in your town was a perfect 76 degrees not a cloud in the sky. By dusk the sky was blotted out from all the fires.

While most people ran to gun store and ransacked the place taking modern body armor and semi auto weapons; you believed yourself clever. You went to the local medieval replica store and grabbed functional chain mail and a broadsword.

Yes you did kill plenty of zombies, yes you survived bite attempts. Your plan was actually working for about a month or two. Then food started running out and people turned on each other for supplies. Turns out medieval armor doesn't stand a chance against a m855 round.

Now as you stare at the sky you realize you were not all that clever.

"LARPER!" Jim shouted. "Ten O'Clock!"

I dropped to one knee and turned, but Jim was faster. The crack of the .308 scout rifle echoed through the empty streets as he put a bullet through the chest of the chain-mail clad, sword-wielding maniac screaming towards us. It stumbled and fell, but staggered back up to its feet, still clutching the bent sword in its hand.

Jim fired a second round. This one punched through the rusted helmet on its head, and the thing lay still.

"What the hell was that!?" Carlos shouted. He was still struggling to bring his shotgun to bear. I gently put a hand on his shoulder, and he relaxed.

"Well," I said, walking up to the thing and poking it with my sharpened shovel, "when The Bad Times started, there were a bunch of people who figured that they could fight zombies close-in using swords and armor. I think one of those survival guides suggested it too. The idea was that the chainmail could prevent you from getting bitten by the zombos, and you could use a sword to fight them." I carefully placed the point of the sharpened spade against the throat of the still-twitching zombie and pressed down hard, separating the head from the spine. "Didn't work.

"Real chainmail used forged links, each one of which is riveted into place. Often times, the links would be doubled-up as well, for greater reinforcement and protection. And it was usually made of a stronger steel. But all of that costs money, so most costume chainmail is made of galvanized steel wire wrapped in coils and cut into unriveted links," I went on. I reached carefully down with a gloved hand and showed Carlos the broken links in the forearm, where a pus-oozing bite wound could be seen under the thin linen undershirt. "It can turn one bite. . . maybe even a few. But it only takes one bad link to get a tooth in and the virus into the bloodstream."

"Plus, chainmail's fucking heavy," Jim said. "Good suit weighs about. . . what? 20 pounds? That's an extra 20 pounds of weight that you don't want to be lugging around."

"And then there's the sword," I said. "You ever try swinging a sword around? It's not exactly easy. And most swords were designed to penetrate armor, not take off a head in one go. You'd be better off with a hammer or an axe."

"And that's assuming the sword is well made and not a wall-hanger made for display purposes," Jim agreed. "Which this one clearly was." He kicked the bent sword into the gutter.

"Stick to a machete from the Home Depot. Or a sharpened shovel," I said. "You can use those as tools, too."

"Crowbar works fine as well," Jim said.

The three of us continued our patrol through the abandoned streets of downtown Buena Park together.

Dear Diary:

It is a year since the infection went global, and all the poor waifs that chose to turn to their uncivilized firearms have all perished. Their ammunition was spent within the first six months, and as nearly all factories are down, production of ammunition is limited.

The fools.

I stand here, sword in hand, within my great castle, the Arundel Mills Mall. Here, I have found more than enough suitable weaponry for my defense. Within these halls, there is a Medieval Times, a place filled with swords and armor which require no ammunition. Chain mail may not block bullets, but it can block the rotten teeth and fingernails of the undead with ease, and the plat armor I could scavenge is practically impenetrable to the creatures; the greater ones are so strong that not even modern armor would protect from their attacks, so practically, I am as well off as any soldier in defense.

I scoff at ammunition. A knife sharpener form a kitchen supply store and my chosen blade, which I have dubbed Dragonfang, are all that I need to leave countless filthy zombies in my wake, dismembered and beheaded. Their teeth cannot pass my armor, yet Dragonfang cuts through their rotting forms like butter. If it were not for some of the larger mutations, I would be next to unstoppable.

Society laughed at me before the infection. They called me a dork, a nerd, and scoffed at my interests in HEMA. Now they come to kneel before my throne, pleading for my protection. Before I was their source of mockery; now, I am their king. I sit in the royal throne of the Medieval Times, casting judgement upon my new subjects. I am fair but firm; I cannot have dissidents endangering our lives by insisting that they have their own way. Such people could be tolerated and ignored in the bygone days of peace, but now, such selfish arrogance will earn them a trip to the torture chamber, or worse, to exile, forced to walk alone in a world filled with the hungry dead, far from the safety of the kingdom.

My executioner has had little to do in the way of punishment, thankfully. He is a twisted man with a predilection for both sadism and theatricality, and has found the most disturbing uses for all manner of things we have looted from the mall. I know not his true name, but he goes by Bloody Ben, and he seems to have quite the chip on his shoulder from society. He usually wears a crude cloth mask, so not many of us have seen his true face. Thankfully, he seems to respect me and my knights, but he is all too eager to dish out punishment to the disobedient subjects, or as he calls them, "normies".

Ah yes, my knights. Thankfully I am not alone in this fight, and several other brave souls who have mastered the blade fight at my side:

Sir Dave the Cunning, a man who worked at a Games Workshop and studied combat tactics in Warhammer tournaments. He is my right-hand advisor, and has led the men into combat numerous times with his talent for strategic planning.

Lady Zuri the Immovable, who uses her hefty weight to become an unshakable wall of defense, and has a religious virtue and faith as unshakable as her form.

Sir Carl the Mad, a fearless man who's life as a homeless crackhead has flipped the tables to make him more prepared for this apocalypse than most people.

Sir Jose the Fox, so named because of his great cunning and trickery, and his talent for luring the undead into his traps.

Sir Ben the Bold, who wields the katana Deathgleam. What time he does not spend fighting he spends training, slicing at whatever we have available with his unique twit on Asian fighting styles. That, or watching anime; he claims it "hypes him up".

We hope to add more knights to our ranks; currently we have a dozen or so squires lined up to be trained for war against the undead legions. But when thing get tough, we knight mount up our horses and charge into the fray, slicing at the undead like a scythe through wheat.

Verily, we have horses; we found them at the Medieval Times establishment. They have been an incredible asset to us in hunting the undead and in travelling great distances when we need to. My chosen steed I have named Firebrand, a lovely and majestic creature who is as lethal to the undead as I, kicking out with deadly hooves and rearing to crush our undead foes.

I shall end my entry here. I am needed on a matter of urgency. If this is my last entry, then faretheewell. I shall die like a true knight, or survive to lead my kingdom into glorious victory. Deus vult, you undead fiends! You face the Knights of Arundel!

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