The short answer is, I'll die, likely to be reincarnated for however short a time as one of the brain-sucking legion of undead slowly taking over the world. And I do mean slowly. Because let's face it... zombies are not the epitome of health. While they are surprisingly strong, and have escaped at least one of the major handicaps that hold back most mortals I know - the handicap being the fact that we feel pain, and it can incapacitate us - they are not well-known for breaking the world record on the 300-yard dash.

However, this knowledge does not comfort me much. Truth to tell, I'm something of a computer potato. I don't exercise nearly as much as I should, and as a result, like the zombies, I'm not known for breaking the 300-yard dash world record. Unless, of course, it's the record for longest time spent running the 300-yard dash. I might actually have a shot at that one.

Added to my sadly out-of-shape physique is the fact that I have little in the way of weapons' skills or handy-dandy quirky knowledge which might encourage a resistance group into protecting me. I don't think that being able to sell out-of-date luggage is a skill needed to survive a zombie-infested world. And while I also make, I believe, a decent mother, that's not precisely an exclusive field... even if it sometimes feels like it might be.

So in the end, after weighing my chances (and avoiding that little square white thing that tells me I'm entirely too heavy!), I definitely have to assume that when the zombies come, I should slather my head with barbeque sauce and start working on an up-and-coming morphine addiction for the pain. Because in the end, it will be my brains nourishing the undead.