Why You Wouldn’t Survive a Zombie Apocalypse (And That’s Okay)

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It is 2025, and somewhere online right now, someone is confidently declaring that they would survive a zombie apocalypse with nothing but a backpack, a cricket bat, and pure determination. Spoiler alert: they would not. Honestly, neither would most of us. But that has never stopped the fantasy, has it?

The idea that you would be the lone survivor, the quiet but deadly scavenger, or the charismatic leader of a ragtag group of survivors is irresistible. You have watched all the right series. You have played the games. You know which canned food you would hoard and which useless items you would leave behind. You have probably even told your friends where your safe zone would be. Nine times out of ten, it is either a mall or a farm, because apparently, we all secretly believe our true selves are hiding in a Woolworths or next to a field of mielies. But the truth is that real life does not play by Hollywood rules. And real people? We are even less reliable than a dodgy generator during Stage 6 load shedding.

Let us get down to basics. People like to believe that adrenaline turns them into Lara Croft or Daryl Dixon. It does not. Adrenaline makes you panic. It makes you freeze in the wrong moment, cry when you most need clarity, or trip spectacularly over your own feet while trying to outrun something with half a jaw and very committed teeth. Unless you are already fit, already skilled in basic first aid, navigation, mechanics, and self-defence, chances are you are not going to transform into a survivalist overnight. Most people cannot even change a tyre without phoning a friend, never mind build a barricade under pressure.

Then comes the psychological toll. Everyone loves to imagine themselves tough enough to make the hard calls. In reality, isolation and exhaustion break you down faster than a zombie bite. Picture this: sleep deprivation, constant fear, the smell of rotting flesh (which is far less cinematic and far more gag-inducing than the movies suggest), and the horror of facing a zombified neighbour you used to borrow sugar from. That is the kind of thing that changes you forever. Not in the cool, gritty antihero way. More in the “sits quietly in the corner, rocking while eating dry instant noodles” way.

And we have not even started on logistics. Where is your water coming from? How are you planning to source chronic medication? How are you going to power your phone so you can keep checking the zombie survival forums you swore would save your life? Be honest. Half of us would not survive the first 48 hours. Not because we are weak, but because modern society has made it very easy to outsource survival skills to technology, infrastructure, and Uber Eats. We can track a Takealot order down to the minute, but ask us to navigate by stars and suddenly the apocalypse feels a lot more final.

South Africans in particular like to think we would do alright. We tell ourselves we have grit. After all, we have survived load shedding, water restrictions, petrol price hikes, potholes large enough to qualify as national monuments, and bureaucracy that could zombify even the most patient among us. Surely, we would be better prepared than most? Maybe. But your ability to braai in the dark is not the same as being able to manage an infected wound in the wild. And no, surviving a Monday morning traffic jam on the N1 is not the same as keeping your head in a full-blown undead ambush.

Here is the strange part though. The fantasy is comforting. It puts us at the centre of the story. It makes us feel capable in a world where we so often feel helpless. It is not really about zombies at all. It is about imagining that when the world collapses, we will discover our hidden potential. That deep down, we are not background characters. We are the main character. The one who makes it. The one who finds meaning in chaos.

But let us be real for a second. Most of us would be background characters. The extras who get eaten in episode one. The people the camera pans past briefly while the hero fights off a horde. We are not the chosen few. We are the offscreen casualties. And that is okay. Because the truth is, even in fictional apocalypses, not everyone is supposed to be the hero.

Of course, there is a humour to all this too. Imagine the average suburban dad trying to take on zombies with nothing but a cricket bat and a Wi-Fi booster. Imagine teenagers who cannot function without iced coffee trying to make it through week three with no electricity. Imagine me, proudly declaring that I would be the “strategist” of the group, only to cry when my Kindle battery dies because I cannot re-read The Road for inspiration. Survival fantasies are flattering lies we tell ourselves to soften the truth: most of us would crumble. And that is hilarious in its own bleak way.

But buried under the banter is something useful. Preparing for an apocalypse, even in theory, reminds us of what really matters. Food. Water. Shelter. Medicine. Community. These are the same things that matter now, apocalypse or not. The same things we take for granted until life throws us a curveball. Maybe zombies will never come. But other crises will. Load shedding, pandemics, natural disasters, even personal struggles. Thinking about survival in an extreme scenario helps us remember the skills we do not have but might need.

So by all means, plan your escape route. Practise your machete swings. Curate your apocalypse playlist. It is fun, it is silly, and it scratches that part of the brain that loves to imagine ourselves in extraordinary circumstances. But maybe also check your medical aid. Maybe also learn CPR. Maybe also figure out how to grow spinach without crying. Because if there is one thing we know for sure, it is that Twitter confidence will not save you when things get real.

And if the zombies never come? You will still be healthier, more prepared, and maybe even capable of changing your own tyre without swearing. That in itself is survival worth celebrating.