My mother has a TomTom GPS device, which we have, so far, survived. I do TomTom a disservice in singling it out, because it isn’t the only GPS device with this secret. I’ve been afraid they would find out that I was onto them, and I’ve finally decided that my only safety lies in telling the world.
The GPS directions are programmed by zombies.
That lady (ours is a lady) who tells you in a firm, no-nonsense voice, where you should turn, when you should “go straight on” and when to “take the motorway” has so often steered us away from our destinations, landing us at the end of no-outlets or on crumbling single-lane backroads or in weed-choked, lightless wastelands! One friend, attempting to go to a coffee house, was directed to a (dramatic music) cemetary!
Just last week, she steered us off our route and took us through the Great Smokey Mountains. At night. With a full moon. Is that a reasonable way to go from Indiana to Georgia? I ask you: Is it?
I carry an umbrella in the back window of my car as a warning to zombies that I’m ready for them. So far, it seems to have worked. At any rate, I still have whatever has been passing for my brains.
And now you’ve been warned so now you, too, may be on guard. It’s us against them, people. Us against Them.
WRITING PROMPT: Does your main character follow directions well, or does he or she suspect directions of always being wrong?