ZOMBIE EPIDEMIC: I Reinforced an Old Lakeside Dock House and Stayed Hidden

Out here on Raquette Lake in the Adirondacks, silence isn’t comfort—it’s a warning. When the first emergency alerts turned into static, I chose the old dock house over the highway lines. I boarded the windows with marine plywood, laced the doors with mooring rope, and hid a shallow-draft aluminum boat beneath reeds. No engines at night, no bright lights, and no shouting across water. The lake gave me an exit if I needed it—and a mirror for every mistake if I didn’t. Smoke on the wind told me the shoreline would soon fill with slow, steady shapes that don’t tire. So I built time into every plan: silent fishing lines, rain catchment, a rope network you can move by hand, and signals that flash low on the waves. “Quiet Water, Louder Fears” is a first-person account of staying hidden without staying alone. It’s about learning the lake’s rules, choosing when to help, and shaping a calm routine when calm is rare: dawn sweeps with binoculars, noon message drops at a screen porch, and careful nights on watch. You’ll meet people who move softly and think clearly—a field medic in training, a patient mechanic, and neighbors who trade wire for coffee—and you’ll see how small, repeatable behaviors become a shield stronger than any wall. No gore, no shock—just grounded survival, real systems, and the choices that keep a quiet dock house from becoming a trap.