14 Surprising Ways to Die in an Apocalypse

There are certain apocalypses that you don’t need a plan for, like a nuclear holocaust, because before you could finish thinking about how many Twinkies you’d need to ride it out, you’d already be dead. Nor do you need a plan for a global infertility wipeout, with it being the funnest of the apocalypses — since the major focus of it would be on boning for humanity (aka Armagedditon).

So let’s focus on the slightly more realistic apocalypses, like zombies, a pathogenic contagion, or grid collapse from a mahoosive solar flare or electromagnetic pulse that sends our infrastructure back to the Stone Age.

The type of bizarramageddon that has us running around in feral factions, fighting for resources. You know, the basic-bitch apocalypses.

My first thought would be that I’d die from something cool, like a zombie bite. Or something basic, like starvation or dehydration. But there are odd ways to die, as apocalypticans, that most of us probably wouldn’t think about…

I doubt many of us would think about the swashbuckling side effects of cataclysmic events. But Spam and Twinkies are seriously lacking in vitamin C.

An apocalypse hits, you take some time to regain your composure, find your marbles, and change your pants because you crapped yourself. Now it’s time to head to the local shop for supplies.

“BZZZZZT! ERRRRR!”

Nope, you’re already late to the party. The stores have been looted and raided, and all that’s left are a thimble and a pack of Bazooka gum. Nobody will want you on their end-of-days squad when all you can offer is finger coverage and lockjaw.

Honestly, if my wifi goes out, it really fucks up my day because I’d planned to binge-watch the Santa Clarita Diet for three hours.

The other day I ate a pickle and a handful of shredded cheese because I was too lazy to pick what to eat then cook it.

I don’t think I’d make it through Mother Nature’s eviction notice. I may just give a zombie a comehither stare on day one, and call it a day.

You were ready for the apocalypse. You’ve been prepping for years while us plebs were just living our normal lives. But you didn’t toil away all that time and spend all that money for nothing; you can’t wait to brag about how prepared you are.

Now you’ve turned this into a doucheocalypse.

So, we get sick of you being a bragadocious douchecanoe — and we rob you.

I live in a very boring geological area; the worst natural events we get are snowstorms. But places with tornadoes, earthquakes, flash floods, etc., well, they wouldn’t get their advanced warning system. So while you’re running from zombies and fighting your neighbor for cheese, you could easily be taken out by a typhoon.

I’ve never tried to outrun a zombie, but I’m already tired just thinking about it.

We thought Google would always be there for us, but they shut down pretty quickly at the end of the world. So when you wander off from your apocalypse squad because you got sick of Bragadocious Bill fighting with No-HOA-Left Karen, you realize you’re lost. You’re stuck in a forest and ‘that tree’ you used as your reference point was a shitty decision because trees look a lot like all the other trees.

I’m sorry to tell you, but if you snore, or have sleep apnea, you’re basically a zombie beacon.

Electricity will be sorely missed. So much so that you may try to figure out how to make your own. It just comes out of the wall after all; how hard can it be? But now you’re being sucked into your makeshift hydrodam after you electrocuted yourself from faulty wiring, while a beaver laughs at you, thinking ‘Harder than it looks, ain’t it?’

If zombi-ism is transferable by blood, then while we’re huffing and puffing in place after running away from a zombie (or ‘formerly alive person’ aka a ‘FAP’, or whatever woke name we give them), you may get bit by a mosquito.

Bam, you’re a zombie now because you forgot to bring your OFF spray to this global clusterfuck, and a blood-sucking vampire insect turned you into a braindead undeadian.

I’m assuming dentists won’t be doing fillings during a mutagenic plague. But a tooth infection can spread to your jaw, brain, or bloodstream. Then instead of dying from a friendly-fire event as we’d planned, we’re taken out by tooth-related sepsis.

Please, nobody write on my tombstone that I died from brain infection because my tooth was ouchy.

During the artificial intelligence robot uprising, I’m definitely going to break my glasses at some point. Now I’m walking around seeing fuzzy shapes; I bend down to boop the snoot of a cute puppy and realize it’s a bear cub.

A papercut sounds harmless until you realize you ran out of antibacterial hand sanitizer the last time a zombie grazed your calf. Now you’ve got an infection because you can’t wash your hands 87 times a day like during the last pandemic. And the antibiotics are trapped in the pharmacy behind bulletproof glass.

So now that blister on your foot that you got running away from a snake is infected and there’s nothing you can do. It turns out quicksand isn’t the problem we thought it would be in the 80s; it’s snakes. At least it isn’t worse predators, like dinosaurs. A velocirapture sounds rough.

Anyhoozy, now your foot is infected. And none of us thought that we’d be taken out in an apocalypse by our own shoe.

Apocalyptic thinking is largely focused on finding water, but how many of us can test that water? So we’d drink something with cholera in it and then shit our brains out. Diarrhea would kill you faster than foraging for the last bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. Even worse, all the Cool Ranches are gone, and it’s only Garlic Shrimp Doritos left.

Much like the Oregon Trail game, now ‘You have died of dysentery’.

Phew, navigating the spicy finality sounds pretty hard. I know, I’m not an apocaloptimist. To be honest, I’d probably just tap out on day three, because I’d already be sick of that apocalypse’s shit. I’d just do a little shimmy (my milkshake brings all the zombs to the yard) in front of one of the undead and become zombified.

Meh, it doesn’t sound so bad.

They seem to have endless energy, and honestly that doesn’t sound that bad these days since I’m Le Tired. They don’t have to go to work and instead get to hang out with their zombie friends. That just sounds like hanging out with my stoner friends from high school.

Now that I think about it, there are a lot of benefits of going Team Zombie. There’s no silly small talk, just vibes. Humans would give me that personal space I’ve always wanted in public. And I wouldn’t even have to put on pants or do my hair — bedhead is fine when you’re a deadhead.

Join my merry band of Wilding Out Weirdos. Don’t be scared, we only bite on Tuesdays.

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