His Cocktail – Luigi DiMeglio
I’ll have a Flaming Doctor Pepper (three parts Amaretto and one part Bacardi 151 in a shot glass, set aflame and dropped in a beer and chugged).
In a zombie apocalypse, defending Townhouses 12 block is not easy, but we’re used to mobs of drunken underclassmen trying to invade our home every weekend, so we’re prepared.
We’ve got big windows in the living room, so the cardboard from empty 30-racks are our only hope for maintaining an appearance of abandonment (light blockage, etc.). The Fire Department’s recommendation to lock the basements never took a zombie apocalypse into account, so we’ve reopened them and dug a tunnel connecting every house in the block.
You wouldn’t believe what we’ve found down here. Plenty of old Schlitz bottles to hurl at walkers and even a keg to put in a fire and use as a bomb. There’s still a stun gun left in Townhouse 123 from when the residents here used to electrocute party-goers back in 2010 (Crime Beat ——).
We’re totally kicking butt compared to those Loyola kids. Your lounge is too nice for war; we’re at home in the rough.
Which leads me to advise: Everyone on this campus should live in horrendous filth and wreckage. Stop taking out your garbage. Break stuff. This way, we’re used to functioning in the conditions of a zombie attack. If you lead too luxurious a lifestyle, your survival will be as short-lived as, well, power at the Townhouses.
In our current state, zombie Fairfield is a bit weird. The Bursar’s office is more charismatic. Athletics are less coordinated (baseball is about the same). Did I mention how funny it is to see Fairfield zombie girls stumbling around with messy buns, clutching their Vera Bradley bags in sweatpants and pearl earrings? I will say, this campus has got the best accessorized walking dead ever.
His Beer – Robby Joyce
I’ll have a Sam Adam’s Octoberfest – a rich, malty and flavorful seasonal lager from my hometown of Boston.
Because, only the best things come from home, and for the inevitable Fairfield zombie apocalypse, there is no better place to call home than Loyola Hall.
The Barone food has finally spawned a new species of students: zombified Stags. Even though it seems like all hell has broken loose on campus, and the Quad has been littered with more walking dead than the medical tent at Prez. Ball, Loyola Hall is the place to be.
For starters, there are the essentials: food and drink. Residents of Loyola are never hungry, as free food always magically appears in the commons. Nothing about a zombie apocalypse makes me think that would change. Plus, free soda perfectly complements the cold Primo’s Pizza that’s been sitting on the table since yesterday’s community event.
Anyone with half a brain (that has hopefully not been already zombified) would elect to live in a four-story building made of stone. This is astronomically better than choosing to defend rundown temporary housing units that were constructed decades ago and have since been virtually disowned by Fairfield. We all know these as the Townhouses.
The Townhouse residents think they’re so cool for opening up their basements; in our basement, for the first time ever we’ll actually be happy that DPS is so conveniently located below us. There, we’ll set up an armory, and with all of their cameras and communications equipment, we’ll always be steps ahead of the zombie killing game.
We will use furniture to barricade all the entrances, and we will transform the commons into a refuge for those students who would rather stay safe and sound, snuggled up watching a “Harry Potter” movie marathon, than venture out to the dangerous and unruly areas on campus, most notably Townhouse 123.
Also, look at those kids in Loyola whom everyone used to make fun of – the ones who played video games on a Saturday night instead of lurking around Townhouses like the familiar breed of inebriated zombies we all thought we knew. Turns out they know more than anyone about how to swiftly and effectively execute zombies.
As a last precaution, we will even channel the spirit of Saint Ignatius Loyola to descend from the heavens on a mission from God, shotgunning beers and zombies like no other member of the Ignatian community.