Between panting breaths, Jacob squeezed out, “You look…like an idiot.”

“Fine, fine,” Harold shot back testily, shifting in his suit, “But you won’t be saying that when you’re turned into a flesh-eating zombie.”

“Actually, he won’t be saying anything, just trying to eat our brains,” Nigel put it, sparing a glance out the window.

“Look,” Harold continued, “We stopped by Nigel’s for the guns and ammo, Jacob’s for the SUV , Mary’s for the MRE ’s (God rest her soul eventually), so it’s only fair we come to my place so I can get my suit. I knew this day was coming, and I prepared accordingly.”

And with that, Harold straightened his glasses and squared his shoulders to show off his handiwork. On his somewhat portly person he wore a body suit of kevlar, impervious to teeth of zombies, complete with cowl. All joints were padded. On his back was a massive carapice, a metal shell with short spines that twisted and bent with him.

Jacob snorted, “You look like an armadillo.”

“Exactly!” Harold snapped.