A Guide to Parenting During the Apocalypse

1. Do not complain, you did not ask for this.

The world is now full of children who live with their grandparents, aunts, uncles, distant cousins, friends of the family, or total strangers. You are not special because you are raising a friend's child. You have not been singled out. This is the way things are.

2. Maintain as much stability as you can.

Do not let your child know the world is ending--not with a bang, but with the tiny whimper of one human being bleeding out in the dark, and then another, and then another. A slow war of attrition as the monsters grow in number every night, and you grow fewer; it will end when all of you are dead. And yet, during the hours you spend under the sun, you can pretend that everything is normal. The city wakes up, assesses the damage from the night before, and goes about its day as best it can. The children go to school. They take their minute of silence for the dead. They play soccer, and "neighborhood watch." They mimic the incineration of the fallen. This is all they have known, and as long as they have structure, as long as they know the rules, they are happy. The psychologists have promised it is so.

3. Make sure she understands the rules.

Teach your child that the sun is her friend. Humans and monsters share the city, but they can only come out at night. Make sure she knows to avoid unknown buildings, windowless rooms, and basements. Teach her to track the progress of the sun across the sky; don’t let her learn to rely on watches, for there may not always be watches. If she gets lost, she should ask a woman with children for help. If it gets too late, she must go home with them. Always be behind a threshold after dark.

4. Tell yourself the rules have not changed much.

When you were a child, you were not allowed to go out after dark. You also received instructions for what to do if you got lost. You also had no cell phone. And if your child does not yet understand that she has no phone because the towers have all been destroyed, she does not need to. Do not tell her the police once had time to help lost children, that a neighborhood watch was little more than a sign on a street, that there was no public curfew. Do not tell her how the city yearned for sunset in summer, or about the cool relief of walks in the evening. She will never know moonlit hikes, or star parties, or trick-or-treating. She will not spend Saturday nights on the town when she grows up. She will never catch a midnight showing. So do not taunt her with these things; she will learn to resent them soon enough.

5. Help her remember the dead.

Talk about her mother. Give her her mother’s heart-shaped locket. Tell her she has her mother’s eyes, her mother’s laugh. Tell her stories from your dorm-room days together. Show her videos of her mother dancing. Make sure she remembers her mother’s face. Do not tell her that you saw that face again last week. She knows better than to trust the dead--but do not tempt her to seek them out.

6. Do not lose your compassion.

When the mother of your child’s best friend calls, answer the phone. Be thankful the lines have not been cut recently. Mourn with her when she tells you her daughter has been taken. Try not to be grateful it was not your child.

7. But don’t do anything stupid, either.

Explain to your child’s best friend’s mother that you can’t help. Stand firm. Remind her that you have your own child to look after. Send her to the police, to the neighborhood watch, to the militia. Reaffirm what they already told her: it is likely too late. Nevermind the rumors--there is no hard evidence of children being kept alive. Surely the dead are too mindless for that. Try not to remember your child and hers having tea parties outside on mild winter days, or making beaded necklaces, or arguing over video games. Try not to imagine the fear in your child’s eyes when you tell her her friend is gone.

8. There is no Chosen One.

If this were a story, there would be a hero to call. But no one has appeared wielding superpowers, or mad ninja skills, or a hidden destiny. The national government has collapsed, the military is fragmented, the local authorities are overwhelmed. No one is coming to save you. There is only you, one-time captain of the high school archery team, washed-out ballerina, and now single mom. And so they call you, because somehow you’ve become their one last hope.

9. It isn’t fair.

Get over it.

10. If you must ignore rule #7, have a plan.

Always have someone ready to care for your child when you die. Call your own mother and ask her to come for the night. Make your child promise to be good. Put a frozen pizza in the oven. Tuck your child into bed. Don’t let her see you cry. Show your mother the letters you’ve written, just in case. She’ll try to convince you not to go; don’t let her.

11. Always choose the right weapons.

It takes wood to kill them; you all know this by now. Don’t put your faith in lead. You don’t have the skills for steel. Holy symbols might protect you, and a threshold will give you a place to hide, but if you want to become the hunter, wood is your only weapon. The crossbow is easy to fire, but shoot once and then you’re dead. It’s the recurve bow you want, compact and powerful. You weren’t bad when you were young, but now you’re better. You’ve practiced until you can draw it over and over without tiring; you’ve learned to hold the extra arrows between your fingers so you can reload in a fraction of a second. Wooden arrows, that you make yourself with feathers and dowels from the craft store. You’ve practiced that too, until you know they’ll fly true. But if there's too many monsters, they’ll overwhelm you and break your bow. Then you’ll die; for good, if you’re lucky. If not, maybe it will be your face lurking in the night, hunting down those you once loved. You can’t believe you’re doing this. Add an extra quiver and a couple of knives.

12. Don’t be afraid of the dark.

They drive, but not like us. Your neighborhood is quiet tonight, but out on the main roads the streets are more crowded than you’d expect. There are no rules. Traffic lights are turned off, lanes ignored. The dead do not fear death, so everything becomes a race, a game, a joyride. Tires screech as stolen cars spin around each other, monsters lean out the windows and toast each other with bottles of liquor and cups of blood squeezed from that night’s catch. What will they do if they notice you’re not like them? You can’t shoot a bow from inside a car. Try to drive like them, and hope they won’t notice your windows are up. Sometimes you pass groups of them feasting. Sometimes their victims can still scream for help. Ignore them. You can’t save everyone.

13. Success will depend on stealth.

Find a quiet place to park. The downtown building where they took the girl pulses with the electronic sound of a DJ, with flashing lights and the beat of a hundred feet against a dance floor. You frequented clubs like this once. Now they are no longer for you. Park around the corner and look for a back entrance. Move slowly. Stay in the shadows. Don’t let the pounding of your heart give you away.

14. When climbing fire escapes, try not to make noise.

And try not to panic as you grow certain they must have heard you. Rumor has it their senses are far sharper than any living human being’s. But you have no proof of that, and surely the noise from the nightclub has you covered.

15. Shoot anything that moves in the shadows.

When going room to room, if you miss, you likely won’t get a second shot. Do not look at them too closely. You don't want to recognize a face you once loved. Fortunately, your eyes are not like their eyes; a living human’s eyes don’t see well in the dark. Do your best anyway. Fire arrows in pairs: one-two. One-two. Slip through the trashed remains of one apartment after another. Don’t get distracted by the detritus of the human lives that once called this place home. Try not to believe that your luck will run out with the next shot. Pray. And when a shadow flutters in the corner of the back room, release your arrow without stopping to think.

16. Remember your first-aid.

Realize what you have done. Rip off your shirt and use it to staunch the blood pouring from the child’s shoulder. Don’t panic. The smell of fresh blood is nothing new in these apartments. It means nothing. Likewise, her weak little cries mean nothing. And nothing will notice. Try to reassure her. Ask her if she remembers you. Apologize. Don’t panic. The arrow is high in her shoulder. If you can stop her from bleeding out, she should be fine. How much blood has been taken from her already? She is so small. Tell her that she’ll be fine. Tell yourself she’ll be fine. Give her an arrow to bite while you break off the shaft in her shoulder. Pick her up when she passes out.

17. Remind yourself that you are not the monster.

It was an accident. It was not your fault. You were trying to save her. Carry her on your right hip. It’s difficult because she is no longer conscious, but if you sling her over your shoulder she’ll bleed out faster. Pray that you meet no more of the monsters. You can’t shoot a recurve bow one-handed. Move to the fire escape as fast as you can. Descend as quietly as you can.

18. Do not think you can outrun them.

This is true even if you’re not carrying a child. Drop the girl to the ground and grab your bow again. Fire off three shots, then three more. Pick her up and run again. Get to the car. No time to clear the vehicle before you get in; pray your luck holds. Throw her onto the front seat and let your tires screech as you pull away.

19. Drive like one of them.

Get to the hospital as fast as you can. Dodge the twisted remains of wrecked cars, the tires burning in the streets. Pray the hospital remains secured. Pray the guards will recognize you as human. Roll down your windows and beg them to let you pass. Carry the girl inside. Scream for help. Watch them wheel her away. Call the girl's mother. Pace the floor. Visit the chapel. Leave in a fury. Doze in the corner. Wait for dawn.

20. Be grateful you get to go home.

Kiss your child’s head when you arrive. Watch as she sleepily opens her eyes. It’s okay to cry. Tell her that her friend will be okay. Don’t tell her what you did. Throw the bow in the closet. Yell at your mother for no reason. Apologize. Swear this was the last time, really the last time. You’re not the Chosen One. You were captain of the archery team in high school. You’re nobody. And no one is coming to save you.