This is the diary of a survivor and his personal experiences in the world of the dead.
Why yes, it does have zombies.
When I told Tom I wanted to start keeping a journal about well, everything, he raised an eyebrow and muttered something about my sanity. I mean that’s just it. My sanity is the reason I’m writing it all down. I suppose I should start with the beginning of the end.
I’m not going to bother with how it all started since if you’re reading this, you’re obviously well aware of what happened. And if by the slimmest chance you’ve been living under a rock the past three months, then God bless you, you lucky SOB.
By the time this thing hit New York and random cases started popping up in small towns everywhere my dad decided it was time for us to get a move on. He was thinking about heading up into mountains. This scared me. See unlike my mother, my dad hated camping. Ever since his time in the army he refused to sleep in a tent. I remember sleeping in the back seat with my sister beside me. My mom was driving while my dad sat shotgun. Literally.
I was wearing my dad’s old leather jacket which I never would have worn except on two occasions; on Halloween, and now. Before all this, when the world wasn’t just hells waiting room, I used to watch a lot of zombie movies and read zombie books. I couldn’t get enough of it and now, well if I never see another one of those bastards I couldn’t be happier. My reasoning behind the jacket is its warm, tight enough that it isn’t easy to grab and above all, bite proof. Turns out this saved my life.
My family and I… Well we never made it to the mountains. As I said, we were driving when mom swerved making me smash my head on the frame. When we got out to see the damage the tires were shredded beyond repair. My dad and I went back to see what we hit. Some asshole had left a spike strip lying in the middle of the road. We spent the night in the car since we were miles from anywhere and the sun was already setting.
I grabbed the atlatl that I made with my dad in seventh grade. An atlatl is used to throw a spear. It acts as an extension of your arm, giving you greater leverage, hence distance and power. Kind of like those things people used to throw balls for dogs. Most cavemen’s’ were little more than sticks with a notch. Mine is solid oak with a hook at one end for the spear. It has a rounded handle on the other end about an inch and a half from the edge wrapped in twine and duck tape. Also we nailed a block below the handle then bent a piece of metal into a wide u and screwed it on to act like a guide for the spear. I had left the spear at home in my room since getting a head shot with it would be damn near impossible, but the atlatl itself was solid.
With my trusty atlatl in hand I snuggled in for the night. I don’t know whether it was my mom shaking my leg from the driver’s seat or the sudden pounding on the car that woke me up. We were totally surrounded. The window smashed and one grabbed my sister, pulling her half way out before my dad managed to blow to top of its head off while another just took its place. I remember yelling to get out of the car when another window smashed. I held the latch to my door and kicked it with both feet to knock away one of them before jumping out and swinging at another. The wood made a loud crack against its temple and it bounced off the side of the car leaving a red smear. They were streaming through the trees from all directions, closing in like a noose around the SUV.
I looked back at my family then I ran. I’m ashamed. I know there was nothing I could have done, there were simply too many of them but at the same time I ran because I was scared. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t bother me. I remember looking over my shoulder and seeing my dad fire his last shell into the crowd. For a moment his eyes met mine. I could see the tears glistening in the moon light as he raised his hand in a silent goodbye. Then they closed in, just a swirling mass of the dead.