Survivor's diary

Chapter 3

Friday, 23d of July, 2010. 12.31

Dear diary,

I think I'm the bravest person in the world right now. I made it out of the house, on my frickin' own. I had a small depression for a day, but I did it. I went downstairs, ignored all the mess and…dead bodies, and went to the kitchen.

On my way there, I came across my dad. He had a hole in his forehead, that went through his brains. His skin was grey, and his eyes had a cloudy green colour. This wasn't my dad, not at all. Still, I grabbed a towel to cover his face, and spoke a few words for him.

"Dad, I know I'm not the best daughter in the world, and you were not the number one dad, but….I just want you to know that….I love you. And that I will keep myself alive. And I will write in my diary as much as I can. I'll be fine. I'll find my own way."

I stood up, and took a deep breath. Time to what I promised.

I grabbed a bag and opened every drawer and closet, looking for anything useful. The two men that had been here, had taken a lot of were some cans and bottles put away very deeply in the closets, something my uncle never did. I whispered a thank you towards God, and praised the creepy man.

I knew I had to get out of here, so I went to the garage. I saw my uncle's motorcycle was gone, and it wouldn't surprise me if they had taken it. The truck was gone too, so I had no vehicle. Great. It seemed I had to walk my way out from the creepers. But I needed a weapon. Something to protect myself.

I remembered the baseball bat, but that took too long. I needed to hit a creeper at least four times before it stopped moving.

I went to my uncle's office again, and searched through his desk. I knew he had a small handgun somewhere. I couldn't find it in his desk, so I searched through the dresser. Nope. I even went to his bedroom, and what do you think? His gun was in his underwear drawer. How original. It had still five bullets in it, five kills, if I had to.

I put the gun in the pocket of my pants, and made my way downstairs again. In the garage, I grabbed a crowbar, just to be sure. I had a little flashback from the man in the street the other day, and the smashed head of my uncle.

I shook my head, and opened the door. Time to go.

Now, I'm in the forest. I found a small shed, probably from some hunter. I'm safe for now, but I think the creepers are close. I sometimes hear their feet over the ground, and moans. It's so creepy. I did sleep for a while, but now the sun's shining through the curtains, and I'm too awake to sleep.

Monday, 26th of July, 2010. 17.36

Dear diary,

The shed is overrun. The creepers got inside, and I had to leave. I'm in the woods now, on my own. It's warm at day, and cold at night. I'm alone, but I manage. Going into the forest must've been the best decision, because I met someone. A guy about my age, Freddie, he managed to escape the city too. He's a nice person, a bit weird and socially awkward, but cool. He carried a radio with him, and there were some transmissions about a refugee centre, and help that was on the way, and that we should stay away from the infected, known as 'walkers.'

"That's what the military calls them" Freddie told me.

"I think 'creepers' is a better name" I replied. "Walkers makes it so…I don't know. It doesn't sound like how they are."

"Maybe you're right, maybe not."

Like I said, socially awkward. Freddie told me about the refugee centre, it was a hopeless mess. People that got infected were killed off, and there was panic everywhere. Even the policemen couldn't take it anymore. Suicide wasn't a special topic anymore.

"That's horrible" I said. We were at a gas station, grabbing supplies. Freddie was trying to steal a car, that was obviously abandoned.

"Yeah, I know. After they killed my father, I left as soon as possible. I didn't want to stay there any longer."

"Yer pa got infected?" I grabbed some bottles of water. "I'm sorry, man."

"That's OK. Life goes on, right?"

I saw a slight shadow of sadness on his face as I looked through the window of the shop. I didn't ask more about it.

Now we're on the highway. Freddie's driving, if you can call it that. We're stuck in traffic, again. Cars are standing still, and people are getting out, asking what's going on. I can see the high buildings of the city. They're on fire. Hell's gone loose. Helicopters fly over, dropping bombs. I hear shots of tanks and see smoke coming up. The world's gone to shit, for real.

Thursday, 29th of July. 14.25.

Dear diary,

I don't understand why I'm still opening this stupid book. I'm not helping anyone with writing down how I feel. It's been a few days now. A lot has happened. Freddie's dead. Most of the people on the highway are walkers now. I don't need to say more, I think.

I'm alone again.

Sunday, 1st of August. 23.04

I still don't understand. I think God's testing me. He keeps giving me challenges, he keeps pushing me. He asks me; how much of humanity is left inside you, when you're in an unfair war with the walking dead? I say; none. I've never killed so many living things. Or dead things. Or whatever. I feel like I'm some kind of redneck. I grab food whenever I can, I hunt if I have to, I even stole stuff from a camp of people the other day. They were sleeping in their tents, no one heard me grabbing a knife and some ammo for my handgun. My uncle's.

Saturday, 14th of August. 12.33

I've killed someone. I killed a living person. The body still lays here in front of me, by my feet. I can see the pool of blood around his head. His eyes are open, so is his mouth. He still has the knife in his hand. He tried to kill me. Son of a bitch. I shot through his brains with the handgun.

I can't believe it. I killed a human being.

Monday, 13th of September. Time unknown.

My watch just broke. The batteries are dead. It's been over a month since I wrote something. I don't care. I don't want it anymore. I have nothing to write. Everything's the same. I wake up, run, kill walkers, grab food, and find a place to sleep. It's been like this ever since the highway. I like being on my own. Being in a group, means you have to care about people. I can't do that. People die. I can't let myself start to care about others. If I can keep myself alive, I'm good.

But still, I miss talking to someone. I sometimes notice I talk in myself. And that's not good. I'm crazy. I know it. I'm crazy because I'm alone.

And the only thing I can talk to, is the stupid diary.

Friday, 1st of October.

The nights are getting colder, and the days shorter. I don't know how long I can stay in the woods like this. I need to find a place to hide for the winter. Somewhere else than the caves, or trees, not even the ditches. Yes, that's how low I am right now. I sleep in the muddy ditches, along with all the worms, insects and animals. Very comfy.

I'm not sitting in a tree. I stole a binocular from some people at a farm. They didn't see me, I think. Otherwise, they would never find me here. I just saw a building through the trees, with towers and fences. It seems too good to be true, but I think I'll check it out tomorrow.

Thursday, 30th of December.

I'm counting the days with a calendar, but I don't know if I'm at the right days right now. I found a place, a new home. It's actually a prison. Yes, a prison. It's completely overrun with walkers, accept for one cellblock. I made it my own, and now I can enjoy the company of walkers all day and night. They seem to be the best defence force against other people out there.

I got the keys for the halls, and I keep the gates close day and night. My cellblock's safe, and it's the only place in the prison where I go. I don't want to investigate, it's good like it is right now.

I go on a supply-run once a month, and that good for just me. I'm so happy now I'm not in a group. It's much easier this way.

Friday, 31st of December.

It's quite a shame. The calendar stops here. I won't be able to count the days anymore, I don't even know the time. I have to get one somewhere.

Or not. I could just stop here. Maybe it's better this way. Just quitting this whole writing-thing. I've done it for a few times now, but now I don't even know the days. I think it's a sign. That I need to stop. Right here.

It doesn't matter I'm on my own. I like how my own voice echoes through the prison, and all the walkers freak out because they don't know where it's coming from. I talk to myself, and that's fine. I'm not crazy. I'm fine on my own.

Someday in the summer, 2011.

I can't take it anymore. I can't talk right now, I can only write in this stupid diary. If I talk right now, they'll hear me.

There are people outside. They're on the field. They killed all the walkers there, and now they're making a fire. I can see them from behind the bridge, at a side building. I can't hear what they're saying, but I think they want to get in tomorrow.

I don't like that. Not at all. This is my prison. I was here first. They will have to fight against me, if they want to get in here.

Wait, no. I think it could be good to get them in here. They have a woman that's pregnant, and a kid. With an awesome cowboy hat.

O my god. I think I know who that other guy is. The guy with the crossbow. He was the creepy guy in my uncle's house, in the early days of the outbreak. He saved my life, basically.

Should I just let them out there? Could I just do that? That man saved my life, I could do the same, right?

No, wait, I just let them make their own way in. There's another cellblock they could use. We could be neighbours!

I'm very excited for tomorrow. It will be an interesting day.

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