The quiet hum of the radio, some newscaster quietly (for he kept the volume low) rolling off some set of statistics about deaths, and areas that were believed to be "well and truly lost." Meaningless for him. He listened to it, hoping for useful information, and dreading the idea that his own city, or even one in the same county, might suddenly become a... what was the word he had heard them use?<br/><br/>"Necropolis. City of the dead. Hah. World goes to hell, and they're still coming up with their fancy buzzwords." He grimaced, as he spoke to himself, a habit he had developed lately; kept him sane, he felt like. He continued to work on his project.<br/><br/>He knew that their were people out there, likely running around, but he didn't much care for that. He was set here, at least for the time being. His pantry was well stocked, easily able to last a week just on dry and canned goods. This was supplemented by a box of 2400 calorie nutrient bars, something he had scrounged up on one of his forays out; likely some government aid that some poor schlob had acquired, but didn't live long enough to use.<br/><br/>He stared at the growing pile of wood shavings on the ground. Shouldn't be that hard to clean up. What was he doing, now? Why, he had acquired some fencing, wooden, white picket... so quaint and ideal, but not being valued for its decorative or cultural meanings. No. He was using a knife to shave it down, creating jagged pointed spears.  He had already made several of them, but he still had a few more to go.<br/><br/>His plan was pretty simple. He lived on the second floor of this two story little place. It had four studio apartments. The others in the building had fled, and he felt that, here in the suburbs, where he'd lived as long as he had had a badge,  he could be safe. It was just a matter of reinforcing areas.<br/><br/>He did not know if this particular plan would work, but it at least kept him busy, kept his mind occupied from the insanity and improbability of the current situation. He hoped that his home made spike-walls would be able to be well-grounded, outside, at an angle; that way, if the pudwhackers came shambling along, they'd end up getting stuck on the spears. Once stuck, he wagered, they'd be so much easier to kill.<br/><br/>Meanwhile, the front door remained barricaded, a love seat firmly pressed up against it. The bottom floor apartments had had furniture pushed up against the windows, and were then locked.<br/><br/>The stairway itself was also semi-blocked off, this time by a couch; however, it would be trivial for a person to climb over it, and it wouldn't take all that long for a zombie to, either, if they had all their arms and legs. It wasn't meant to keep the second floor isolated; he couldn't think of a feasible way to do that. But it would slow them down, at least.<br/><br/>Add to that a few noise making traps, just strings with silverware and old cans attached to them, meant to alert him if anybody or anything got inside, and he was feeling pretty safe.  If something did get in, he had his choice of three guns, and three melee weapons, that he could make use of in disposing of them.<br/><br/>The back door did worry him somewhat, but he had to keep an easy way in and out for when he made his forays. It led out into a recessed back yard, that was surrounded by this small, three foot tall chain-link fence, and which he doubted would hold up all that well. Hell, once or twice he's quite literally seen one of them just tumble over the sorry-excuse-for-a-barrier.<br/><br/>Nothing can be perfect, though. He just has to keep the weaknesses in mind, and work to compensate them.<br/><br/>He stares over towards a window, longing for the feel of the sun. But, these past few days, he's had all his windows shut, locked, and the room-darkening blinds shut; he didn't want the pudwhackers, or potentially hostile survivors, catching sight of him, and getting curious.