Everyone Died+My iPhone Stopped Working: An Oral History of The Robot Apocalypse

The Walking Dead

Marietta Weiss, 47

Manager, Whole Foods

Nothing is worse than misplaced faith. That moment when you realize that everything you held true was pure and utter horse pucky.

(Pardon my French.)

Trust me. I know.

When the robots came, everybody was scared out of their gosh-darned wits.

Not me, though.

I was bleepin' mad. Not at the robots, but at myself.

And also at the robots.

But mostly at myself.

Because I had believed in a doggone lie.

OK, here's the thing. I have seen every episode of The Walking Dead at least five times. I love all the characters, but the one I really identified with was Carol Peletier [played by Melissa McBride whose previous credits include guest spots on Dawson's Creek and Walker, Texas Ranger].

Carol started off as this meek stay-at-home housewife with a physically abusive alcoholic husband — a real piece of work — named Ed and I'm watching her thinking that she's going to be Zombie Chow for sure. But instead of giving up, she gets stronger and stronger and eventually she's a total bad-fanny!

And I realized: they are telling the story of my doggone life!

Not the stay-at-home housewife part. Or the physical abuse part. Or the alcoholic part (although if you ask me, he was bit too fond of Mike's Hard Lemonade). But my fragdaggle husband's name was Ed. And when it came to my love of hashtag TWD, he was anything but supportive.

"It's just a show, Marietta," he would say. "And it's stupid!"

For a while, whenever he said that, I just meekly lowered my eyes like first season Carol, but by season three, I had had enough. "It's not just a show, Ed!" I would say bravely back. "And it's definitely not stupid!"

"Come on! They're always driving around in brand-spanking-new 2013 Hyundai Tucsons. And the zombie outbreak occurred in 2010. I mean, what's the logic here, Marietta? Nearly everyone is wiped out, the undead are roaming the earth, but the Hyundai factory just keeps on cranking out Tucsons?"

See what I mean? Abusive!

"Yeah, well... you wish you could afford a Hyundai Tucson!"

That got him to shut his prayer-hole. And file for divorce.

Anyway, The Walking Dead wasn't just a rassa-frassin show. Not for me. It was a frazzle-rackin message.

"Marietta," the show was saying in a Texas accent that went in and out, "very soon the dead will be walking the earth and the living will have to do whatever it takes to survive, and you'd better be ready, girl!"

The show liked to call me "girl."

So without that dipstick Ed to distract me, I was able to focus on what was important. Getting ready for what was to come. Which meant, first of all, that I needed weapons. One advantage I had over Carol was that I had seen The Walking Dead, so I already knew a lot of the things that Carol had to learn on her own.

For example, guns were great for killing, but loud noises attracted zombies from all over the darned place, so quiet weapons were definitely better. Darryl, who is my second-favorite character, used a crossbow — which was not only quiet, but you could pull the bolts out of the dead zombie's head and use it again — so I got one.

Michonne, who is tied for my second-favorite character, had a samurai sword which was very practical and I was able to find an exact replica of it on eBay for the very reasonable price of five hundred dollars. They don't send it to you sharpened, but I sharpened it myself, which sort of ruined it, so I got another one. Which I also ruined. Sword-sharpening is harder than it looks.

But weapons are no good unless you are willing to use them. And this is where I learned the most from Carol, because she taught me that if you're going to survive, you have to stop being sentimental and get tough.

And not the normal tough we were all used to. The "please-put-my-name-on-your-Do-Not-Call-list" tough or the "sorry-cousin-Claire-but-you-made-the-dadgum-Waldorf-salad-last-Christmas-so-I'm-gonna-make-it-this-Christmas" tough.

We're talking mother-loving Carol Peletier tough. "Set-your-friend's-wife-on-fire" tough. "Shoot-an-adorable-ten-year-old-girl-in-the-back-of-the-head" tough.

I've always been very squeamish, so I needed to practice. I started with overripe fruit that I brought home from work. Peaches, then cantaloupe, then watermelon. It made a gross squishy sound, which I think they probably used for the sound effects on the show. After a while, the sounds didn't bother me any more.

Then I went after cats. I know that cat-lovers are going to hate me for saying that, but I don't care. It's the lesson of Carol. You do what you have to in order to survive. If it's me or a dad-blasted cat, sorry Fluffy, but I choose me every time.

Plus, it seemed like a great way to perfect my skills. I figured if I could hit something as fast and nimble as a cat with a crossbow, I could certainly hit a slow-moving zombie.

I couldn't hit a cat, as it turned out, but I got close a few times, and I felt pretty good about my progress. The blankety-blank neighbors shunned me, but I shunned them right back. They were soft, they were cowards, and they didn't deserve to survive.

That was the really freeing part. Not giving a flying fig about what anyone else thought. It cost me my neighbors, my job, my friends and even the so-called Walking Dead "fans" who voted to replace me as president of the Rocky Mountain chapter.

(Rot in H-E-double-hockey-sticks, Sheila Arnett!)

I was alone. But I was ready to face the Zombie Apocalypse.

But the freakin' robots came instead.

And there I was standing there with a Samurai sword in one hand and crossbow in the other.

Like a blangdang dodo bird!

I know what you're thinking. What's the big deal? An apocalypse is an apocalypse, right?

Wrong, you fucking idiot! Zombies are fucking zombies and robots are fucking robots and if you shoot a fucking zombie in the head with a crossbow it fucking dies but if you shoot a fucking robot in the head... well, these robots didn't even have heads! And they moved too fucking fast for you to hit them anyways but even if you did, it would just fucking bounce off of them and the robots would just fucking laugh at you, except they weren't capable of laughter which the zombies weren't either and that's the only way that the fucking zombies and fucking robots are fucking alike!

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I don't usually swear. It's just... I get so worked up when I think about...

[She cries for about half an hour]

It was flappin' devastating! My whole world had fallen apart. Like I said, nothing is worse than misplaced faith.

But then again, maybe it's not misplaced.

Sure, it was robots this time. But who's to say that it won't be zombies next time?

And when the zombies do come, who's going to be ready for it? Me.

Not my disapproving neighbors. Not Ed. Not Sheila Arnett. (And by the way, Sheila, your autographed Andrew Lincoln photo is obviously a fake!)

I'm going to sharpen my sword (I think I know how to do it now) and practice with my crossbow and when the time comes, I will do what needs to be done.

Like Carol.