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Doomsday Disciples

Continued from page 3

"Every time there's a power outage, there's a run on kerosene heaters, water and generators at local stores — anything that would help alleviate problems," says Dotson, noting that his south St. Louis county home has lost power three times since he moved in a year ago.

"People fight over them, and it quickly turns into a mob mentality. It's better to have this stuff in advance, to be prepared."

It's nine at night and nineteen degrees on Lindell Boulevard the day after the ice storm. Ten members of the Zombie Squad are still traversing icy sidewalks toward Forest Park.

As folks line up to watch the new James Bond movie within the cozy confines of the Chase Park Plaza, the group trudges past without so much as glancing at the marquee. They cross North Kingshighway into the park and soon find a wind-sheltered spot to set down their bug-out bags.

Squatting in the snow, they unpack camping stoves and begin preparing a canned-and-dried feast, including chicken soup, Dinty Moore beef stew, instant coffee and tuna fish. Someone's even brought a bottle of Jägermeister.

Nobody prepares a fire for this ersatz camping experience (you're not exactly allowed to forage for underbrush in a city park), but if anyone's feeling cold, they're not letting on.

"I'm going to start the quiz," announces Pete Hanson, the organizer of tonight's mock bug-out. "How many people know what potassium iodide is used for?"

Points are given for the correct answer — it blocks radiation exposure — and more points are dispensed for well-stuffed knapsacks. One Zombie Squad member has a hatchet, another a saw. But the competition eventually breaks down in favor of a discussion about the merits of different water-purification chemicals. (Chlorine is preferable to iodine, apparently, as iodine drops taste foul and can harm one's kidneys.)

They'd stay out all weekend if they didn't have families and jobs to get back to. Now, four hours and seven long miles after setting out, the Zombie Squad returns to the Tap Room. There, they toast themselves with coffee stouts and hefeweizens.

Before long, the conversation returns to doomsday scenarios. "I'm glad my house is made of wood," offers Chris Bellers, "because brick houses would come right down during an earthquake."

By the end of the night, the warming alcohol has eased the pain of the marathon, and they begin plotting their winter camping expedition in the Great Smoky Mountains next month.

Yes, it too will be punishing, they concede — but that's the point. Life's a treacherous, icy journey — not a climate-controlled destination. Though they know their skills and gear may never be tested by a full-fledged apocalypse, at least they can always say they were ready. Who can say more?

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