Before the zompocalypse, zombies were just a part of myth and legend, which constantly appeared in film, books and video games. People were obsessed with them, but now all we want to do is escape their decaying grasps. Our once-population of 500,000 fell to 300,000 after the first riots. That’s when I lost my family. Three hours later, they climbed from the rubble, blackened by fire and reddened by blood. The population fell again, to 150,000. After our first year alone, the population continued to fall. People weren’t accustomed to the tribal life and Tasmania, which was previously a hub of inhumanity, had degraded to a hub of savagery. It became a cause of celebration when you recognised someone from the old life, even if they didn’t recognise you back.
I’m sorry to break it to you but my last friend, Sam, didn’t make it past 25 years of age. I lost him four years ago.
We went on a supply run at an old abandoned grocer’s. It had gone untouched during the riots because it was buried under the depths of a rural village, through an obscure alley and a flight of stairs, under the ground. It was filled with rotten fruits and meats, but there was one line of shelves at the back which were lined with enough preservatives to feed the whole lodge.
“Hey Sam, do you remember alphabet soup?” I asked, picking another can from the shelf, “Because that still exists.”
“I hate alphabet soup,” he cringed.
“You’re a monster,” I snapped, hugging the can. “Besides, you can’t afford to be picky.”
“Fine,” he said, snatching a jar of preserved olives from the shelf, “I dare you to eat one of these.”
He knew I feared olives more than death itself. I opened my satchel, placing the alphabet soup in it, and stared at the olives with cautious eyes.
“Okay,” I replied, reaching out for them, “when we get back.”