My Doomsday Bunker goes to 11.
It is so stealthy no one will ever know it’s a bunker. It looks like a house, because it is a house, with a yard. Stealthy right? When the zombies come I simply invite my neightbours over and we dowse the fuckers in geothermal stored holy water with my collection of super soakers and pressure washers. Then we establish community strength, by digging in to my stash of prepper food—which is a two-four of baked beans. After the fart-fest, everyone leaves my bunker in peace. They got my back. I got theirs.
11.