Out of every wicked, awful thing about the zombie apocalypse, running out of contacts has proven the most dangerous. Every week rotting, undead corpses that smell like an upside down cemetery try to bash in my brains and gorge themselves upon the fatty, pink tissue inside my skull. My food rations now consist of freeze dried jerky, which I raided from a nearby astronaut training camp, and squirrel. Mosquitoes swarm my camp and feast upon my blood so often that I look like a chicken pox victim. And although all of those scenarios make my life a constant inferno of frustration and impending death, running out of my prescription contacts makes all of my other tribulations seem like paradise. Devoid of my contacts I cannot distinguish a bear from