Zombie Apocalypse Night Shield

The world had long since adapted to the zombie apocalypse. It turned out that the end of days wasn't nearly as dramatic as the movies had made it out to be. Zombies were mostly a nighttime inconvenience, like mosquitoes. As long as you stayed inside after sunset, life went on more or less like before.

That’s why my friends and I had no qualms about heading out for a glamping trip at a cabin deep in the woods. “A little fresh air and nature,” I joked as we loaded the car, “and maybe the occasional groan from the undead—sounds like a dream.”

The cabin itself was cozy, perched by a serene lake, with twinkle lights strung from trees like an Instagram dreamscape. When we arrived, the host—a no-nonsense woman with a clipboard and a weary expression—greeted us.

“Welcome. Beds are made, snacks are in the fridge, and I’ve left Night Shields on the bunks.”

“Night Shields?” my friend Mia asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Plastic tents,” the woman explained, gesturing as though we were dense. “Zombies can’t figure out zippers, so you zip it shut and sleep easy. It’s 98% effective.”

“And the other 2%?” I ventured.

The woman gave me a flat look. “If you hear one of those, scream and hope it’s slow.”

Reassuring.

Still, we weren’t worried. Zombies hadn’t really been a big deal in years. Most people barely thought about them anymore, except when buying night locks or restocking their emergency kits. The apocalypse had gone from a horror movie to background noise.

After a day of hiking, paddleboarding, and roasting marshmallows, we were exhausted and ready to crash. True to form, we each unwrapped our designated plastic tent—a sort of oversized sleeping bag with a clear shell that zipped up completely. It felt a little silly climbing into a glorified sandwich bag, but the woman had said it was “98% effective,” and that was good enough for us.

“Good night, everyone!” Mia called out, her voice muffled through the plastic.

“Sweet dreams,” I replied, settling into my cocoon.

The night passed without a hitch. There were distant groans and the occasional thump against the cabin walls, but it was like hearing raccoons rustling in the garbage. No one cared enough to wake up.

Morning came, bright and peaceful, with the smell of pine and coffee brewing. We unzipped our tents and stretched, laughing at how absurd it all seemed now.

“Well,” I said, pouring myself a mug of coffee. “Here’s to surviving another night in the ‘apocalypse.’”

Mia grinned, holding up her toast in a mock toast. “And to the unsung hero of our survival: the Night Shield.”

We all laughed, clinking our mugs together.