The City

It has been over a day, diary, and Brianna and I have made little progress.

Once we drove into the main streets of the city, it was obvious we were going to have to fight. There were zombies everywhere. On benches, fighting in the streets, trying to break the windows of cafes and offices to search for food outside. Even with both windows of the truck rolled up, the poundings of windows and the inhuman and sickly groans from the streets were overbearing.

The infection hit a few days ago now, around lunchtime. For obvious reasons, that's the worst time 99% of the human race can completely turn into infected, flesh eating animals. People were out and about, on lunch breaks from the office, enjoying the spring sunshine...when, suddenly, it just hit. I could attempt to explain why it was instantaneous, and I could attempt to explain why someone like me, and someone like Brianna, were spared.

Yet, to attempt to explain would only be spouting lies, because no one (which isn't speaking very highly, out of two people thus far) knows why, exactly, it happened, and why, exactly, it happened the way it did.

Either way, the reasons why did not take away the need for survival that Brianna and I had at the moment of crossing through the most populated parts of the city. There were too many zombies to get out and fight to eliminate the threats, so we simply barged through them, wincing at the sounds of pangs and clings from bone hitting metal. I didn't think about what it was doing to the health of my truck as I rolled over the infected bodies, simply hit others to clear them of our path. I could only feel the guilt, once again, from killing something that used to be human.

Brianna and I were out of the city at about five this afternoon, wondering if we had been holding our breaths the entire time. There were a few times I had to jump out and kill the zombies with my axe as Brianna tried to pull the truck out of the heaps of bodies it had plowed, and there was once when we simply got lost. That was awful.

Anyway, once we were out of the city, we stopped by a grocery store, the automatic doors gliding open for us, which only succeeded in creating a ghost-like atmosphere. I used to imagine an end-of-times with no electricity...but in reality, since most electric workers are now zombies, no one is there to shut off the electric because of no payment. I guess in a while it will shut off by its own, if only by an emergency activation or something of the sort. For now, though, it's still on, and we walked in, only killing zombies when necessary as we restocked on food and some supplies.

It worried me more than anything, though, as we walked through the aisles, noticing the near expiration dates on a lot of foods. How long will it be until we find some resolution in it all? Is there a place where survivors come together for mutual benefit? Will we ever find this place?

For a number of reasons across the board, time is running out.

Brianna

Well, diary, I have failed you. It is all under good circumstances, however.

The little tan Toyota that I followed into the city, hoping there was some human out there besides me without which the virus had taken over, had turned into a parking garage somewhere in the middle of Indianapolis. I had followed it, all the while wondering why a car was going into a parking garage after a zombie apocolypse. There is no building worth visiting or going into any longer when your first thought is of survival.

My heart raced as I caught up to the car on the second level. Out of the corner of my eye, two zombies were shuffling around at the door that led from the parking garage to the nearest office building. The sight of them would have been humorous if it had not been serious; one of the zombies had been a young, 30s-ish business man, and was still in its business suit, although its briefcase was dropped and scattered a few feet away. Its shirt was stained red, and I noticed it was hungry enough to have started consuming its own arm. The other zombie, once a middle-aged woman in women's business attire, shuffled around, then over to the first zombie. She lifted up her fists and hit the other in the chest, almost just to irritate him. The man zombie hissed out an annoyed, animalistic cry, then swung his arm, hitting the other in the head.

Another zombie fight apparently was in the works. So far I had figured out that zombies were dumb creatures that held no rememberence of their past intelligence as humans, creatures that acted on instinct and survival only, not on emotion or thought. Seeing the zombies fight, I wondered if the woman zombie had only started bothering the other to really annoy him. Wouldn't that mean that zombies did have some sort of thought? You have to want to annoy someone to think of an action with which to do it, do you not?

Why bother understanding? Suddenly grateful for the distraction, I grabbed the axe I had acquired at the farm yesterday and slowly, delicately, got out of my vehicle. I breathed a sigh of relief as the two fighting zombies paid the motion no heed, grunting and hitting one another, even throwing in the occasional kick.

I walked slowly up to the driver's side of the vehicle. I knew in my head and heart that the driver was human, but the axe still shook at my side. I saw a blonde ponytail through the windows of the car as I neared the driver's side window. Finally looking into it, a pair of crystal blue eyes met my own, her fingers grasping onto the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles were white. Rolling down the window just an inch or two, the woman's eyes didn't leave mine as she asked the most simple and most important question she could.

"Are you human?"

"I am," I had replied. "I've been hoping you were. I've been following you--"

"I know," she interrupted. "Were you wanting to join forces?"

Her words sounded official: join forces. In reality, we would simply travel together, have another person there with us to save our sanity, and have extra weapons. I couldn't deny that I needed another person--true person--around. I had been talking to myself through verbal words and through you, diary, for the past few days only.

"You're the first actual person I've seen in a few days. I think it'd be safest to group together. I'll share my supplies with you."

"Do you have food?" She asked, and that particular question made me pay attention to the young woman's sunken in cheeks.

"Yes. Lots of it, actually. When's the last time you ate?"

"I was at lunch when it hit. That's the last time."

"Why in the world didn't you stop somewhere and get food?" I was vaguely aware of the zombie fight ending over near the stairwell. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed that the man had won, and was currently grabbing at the other, fallen zombie's arm. I then made sure not to be aware of what he was doing.

"I..." she trailed off, and she glanced over to where she had seen my eyes. "Oh God...can we finish this conversation somewhere else?"

"Leave your car. Let's use my truck. I have all the food and supplies in the back."

Minutes later we were in my truck, back out on the streets of Indianapolis. The woman was eating straight bread out of a bread bag that I had taken from a gas station just a day or two ago. She had eaten almost half the bag of bread by the time I asked her the question we had left our conversation at.

"Why haven't you eaten?"

"I had no food with me."

"Stores and groceries and gas stations and restaurants are all full of food," I replied.

"Yes, but to take food from them would be stealing."

Her response might have seemed silly, but I agreed with her. The morals one grows up with doesn't change once a world shattering event like this zombie apocolypse happens. Even when you are focused on survival, like I was when taking the bread (among other things such as cans of vegetables, drinks, and other foods), you still wonder if things will ever be the same. If the world returns to normal, will I remember which places I took supplies from? Will I be able to make them whole for it? Will it even matter?

The woman's name, I found out later last night, is Brianna. She is from a community not far from my own. She said she was at lunch when the infection hit. She had taken her younger brother out for lunch for his twenty-second birthday. At this point in the story she always starts sobbing, and I have to simply imagine the way her brother died. I don't make her go on, because if she killed her own brother, she's already dealing with the immense guilt.

Brianna has taught me something I haven't yet figured out. The infection hasn't just affected humans; animals, too, are turning into thoughtless and evil creatures. She told me that most small animals were simply killed when it hit, and that I know. The endless corpses of birds litter the streets no matter where you drive.

It is this fact that she taught me that leaves me with a bit of hopelessness. Even animals are affected, and that simply adds to the enormous stress of the situation. I have to admit, though, that this information gives me strength in only the way that I can share it with another person.

Aim for the Head?

I am relying far too much on this diary to save my sanity.

I plan on driving into Indianapolis today, if only to cross it and emerge from the other side. I don't plan on stopping. I have already gone through what it might be like to drive through the city. Zombies are few and far between in rural areas, but they will be rampant like the plague in the city. Of course, that also means there is a better chance of me seeing another human.

I was depressed last night. I finished my diary entry, truly wondering about the last question I had wrote. Ironically, I decided that then was the time for another cigarette. I made the mistake of going outside of my truck to smoke. Because, you see, even though I picked up a habit I swore I would never even consider when things were normal, there is that nostalgic and insistent part of my mind that says maybe one day things will be normal again. That's why I still don't smoke in my truck. One day, if things are normal again, the stench of my truck will be a reminder to the people I've killed (although no longer people), and the depression I have gone through.

A zombie wandered out from behind a car, then, on the highway I had planned on calling my home for the night in my truck. The zombie used to be a middle aged man, overweight and with that unmistakeable grayish tinge to his skin that gave away the fact he was no longer human. He had cocked his head at me, studying me with his newly found animalistic instinct, watching the smoke rise from my cigarette.

I knew, then, that I would have to fight. Knowing it would attract him further but having no choice, I swung open the door to my truck with a creak, my cigarette falling to the pavement. I grabbed my guitar, waiting for the zombie as it broke into a run, its bloodshot and no longer human eyes focused on a much needed meal.

I had held my guitar in a position ready to knock the zombie's head from his shoulders, simply waiting for the stupid thing to come to me. As he neared, I aimed for the head. Always the head, as popular culture claimed, as a zombie could not be killed any other way, or so I thought. Then something happened I hadn't counted on: I missed.

I hit the zombie's shoulder with the guitar, not causing hardly any damage at all. He stumbled, confused, and I had taken the opportunity to jump into my truck, hardly slamming the door behind me before the zombie grabbed at me, his inhuman fingers only grabbing at glass. Starting my truck, I had slammed the accelerator, leaving the zombie behind. Watching him chase me in an awkward run, I decided what I had to do, if only to take one more of these things out of existence.

I put the truck in reverse. The dumb zombie continued to run toward the back of my truck, probably no longer thinking about why, just knowing it had been doing so and would continue to do so before it lost its momentum. I went faster and faster in reverse, debating whether to watch or not. Then, the zombie and the back of my truck connected with a slam!, the tailgate hitting its chest and flipping it onto the ground. Two sets of tires thudded before the body of the zombie appeared before me.

Bloodied and bruised, it had no injuries to the head, but it wasn't moving. In a daring move, I exited my truck and went to the body. Part of me wondered if it was a ploy, then I quickly dismissed that, knowing that my past few days of experience with zombies showed clearly that the virus turned these people into no more than dumb predators reacting on instinct. I studied the body for a bit. It had bleeding wounds, losing a massive amount of blood, but again, no injury to the head. Just to make sure, I kicked the zombie in the side, waiting for a reaction.

There wasn't one. It would seem that popular culture had it wrong again. This morning, I killed two zombies out of necessity while looking in a farmhouse for some clothes on the outskirts of the city. To test my theory, I aimed everywhere but the head with the axe I had found in a tree trunk outside. I have found, in conclusion, that zombies can be killed in any way that a human can be when it comes to losing blood and such. It makes sense, now that I think of it, since zombies are not undead creatures but humans who have become infected with a virus that reminds me so much of rabies with a sick twist. If it loses enough blood, it simply cannot continue to exist.

I may write again tonight, diary. I actually have faith that I will. Realizing all this new information about the zombies makes me feel like I do have purpose here. Perhaps one day I will find someone to share my findings with. Of course, by that point, they may know themselves. Oh well. It gives me a reason to hope, no matter how tiny and sad that reason is.

I am currently following the distant sight of a car into the city. I know that if it is a moving, driving car, it has a human driver. I can only hope I can make my way through this highway's maze of car to catch them, perhaps group up with them and see if they know anything else about this virus.

Even if they don't, it's another human. That makes it worth it.

Cigarettes

Today, thus far, has been fairly inactive.

Zombies were few and far between in the stretch of highway I traveled today. It was a depressing sight. Cars wrecked into highway medians, semis crunched against guard rails, bright orange, licking flames pushing black smoke into the air, as if to reinforce the idea that this is the End of Times.

At first, as I drove my loyal old pick up around the deserted cars, I wondered why people had suddenly wrecked into things and ran from their cars when the infection hit. Then, as my truck neared empty and I zig-zagged between piles of bent up metal that used to be cars off an exit with a clear route to a desperately needed gas station, I realized what I should have known all along.

People had simply turned. While the population of Indianapolis drove to and from work, to meet friends and family for lunch, to go to appointments, this odd infection hit, turning them as they drove. The infection seems to make people into hungry but dumb animals, and this was no exception. All knowledge of driving cars, of common sense, left them as they turned, causing pile ups throughout the length of the road.

As I drove through the maze of cars, I realized this because although the crashes had killed most, some of the cars had the drivers intact. They were too dumb to know how to take off their seatbelt, but smart enough--or, at least, they had that animalistic instinct--to know that I was food. As I drove by, zombies that had once been mothers, fathers, sisters and brothers, watched me with their intense, reptilian glare. The pounding they did on the windows as I drove past, the only thing they knew how to do in an attempt to reach me, was insistent and pathetically scary. Because, as I attempted to ignore the pounding, the pounding of the windows until hands broke open and smeared red on the inside of the windows, only exciting the zombies more, I knew that they could not reach me, but it only reinforced the fact that I was alone.

I filled up at the gas station after that. I also stocked up on food and supplies, grabbing a baseball bat from the employee area for good measure, in case my guitar became useless in the future.

On the way out of the gas station, I was trembling simply because my mind was trying to force me to wake up, get out of this nightmare. Certainly, that's all this was. I could not seriously be alone in the middle of a zombie-induced Armaggedon. Childishly, I then pinched myself, as if that would help.

When it didn't, I grabbed cartons of cigarettes from back behind the gas station counter. I had never smoked before today; in fact, I found it quite a disgusting habit. I always prided myself for being completely poison-free--no cigarettes, drugs, alcohol, or even the consumption of meat back when things were normal. But today, I started smoking. Dying of cancer is a relief compared to being eaten alive. And hell, if it helps the stress, it's damn worth it.

I have no more beliefs to hang tight to. They don't matter anymore. I've been eating anything I can get my hands on, and today started a habit I used to condemn others for. As I sit here, by the last light of the sun shining coral through my truck's windshield, I realize that this apocolypse has taken my very being from me, stripping me from the things that made me an individual.

I must ask myself: is it even worth it to survive, when the only thing that makes me special on this earth is the fact that I am human?

Light of the Fire

I am writing by the light of the rising sun coming over the eastern skyline. Sunrises are more beautiful now than ever, if only because they mean I have survived another night.

Last night, I planned on writing again. I took a cigarette lighter that I recently acquired from the overrun gas station down the street and started a fire in a overfilled trash can outside of McDonald's. I started a diary entry, only to hear the distant moans of curious and hungry creatures. (I should, really, start to officially call them zombies, although I do not want to associate the word with these demented things. The word zombie, to me, used to mean something you could shoot for points in a videogame, or something you could watch as you ate popcorn in a theater. Zombies used to give me entertainment. Now, only fear.)

I must think that the fire attracted them. Any flash of light, loud noise, or any clue of life attracts them. It is easier to ask what does not attract them then what does. And, perhaps popular culture was wrong about one thing: they do not walk slowly. No, it is to my unfortunate realization and experience that zombies do not walk. They run when in sight of food. Sure, when no signs are obvious, they shuffle and even fall over themselves, in the midst of their rabies-like virus. Sometimes they even fight amongst each other and try to eat one another, although zombie flesh seems to not satisfy zombie hunger.

Speaking of which, I saw another human last night. A girl no older than seventeen, she was, and she was running.

Unfortunately, I never got to speak to her. Once the zombies were through, I tried to find any remnants of who she was when she was alive. I found a locket. Although not heart-shaped, it had a picture of two older people, I have to assume her parents, and on the other side, a curious choice in the form of a Siamese cat. I took the locket, and put it around my own neck, in memory of a stranger who was more like me than 99% of the human population as it stands. I hope, someday, someone keeps something of mine, if only to say that this diary, or this shirt, or this shoe belonged to one of the last humans.

At that point, though, will it matter?

I killed more zombies last night. I had to, to get to the girl's remains and find the locket. Four of them had feasted on her, and all four were lying in crumbled piles when I was through with them. I used the only weapon I had, the only thing I held when the infection hit, my beloved guitar. I never quite learned to play a guitar, but I was learning. Now, I have to use the guitar to learn how to kill. How ironic.

It is amazing how, before the infection, strangers were indifferent to one another. You hear about shootings and killings on the news, but do you truly care? Do you sit and think about the victim and the family, if they are not somehow related or connected to you? Probably not. People are cruel to one another just to be cruel. Lack of common courtesy was one of the most mild ways to be cruel to your fellow human without, perhaps, thinking of the consequences. If one person in the world is sick, you can bet the world goes on without a care.

Now, though, it is different. One begins to realize the importance of such strangers only when all your family and friends have turned into horrific creatures that only want to feast on you. For these three days, all I have wanted to see was strangers that were still human. Strangers with whom I could group with and raise my chances of survival, while raising theirs. That is assuming, of course, that we will survive, and that life will go on after the infection, which is highly unlikely and almost impractical to think of at this point.

The sun is completely up now, so I will be on my way. I have already cleaned my guitar. I have seen too much blood in the last three days to want any of it within reach. I feel exhausted. I am just heading down this highway that heads east, hoping to come across anyone who has a plan. These zombies never sleep. Whether day or night, they shuffle around, waiting for something to pass by that still has a sane mind. Unfortunately, I still do.

One fortunate thing is, of course, that I live in a very rural part of Indiana, a place where zombies are infrequent because the population was. Of course, I am heading east, and the first city I'm driving by in my old pick up is Indianapolis. A city that is pretty well populated...or, at least, just more populated than the country.

I am not looking forward to that. Then again, there is not much to look forward to.

The Beginning of the End

How many of us have watched the movies that portrayed the end of the world with explosions and lots of guns? What would people consider it if the world did not suddenly just go up in flames, but instead ended before you knew what was happening? And, what if, the end of the world did not kill all of humanity, but somehow twisted and perverted it until it was unrecognizable?

Yes, what if? What ifs do nothing to help me now. It is odd how most of humanity has turned now, yet I am still writing. Why write this diary entry, I must ask myself, if most people aren't necessarily people any longer and have no access to my pleading words, even after death? Humanity no longer cares to seek opinions of others...instead, most of humanity is sickened and controlled by some type of virus that I cannot explain and doubt any sane human that is left can.

How long has it been since the first infection? Two days. Since the last infection? One day.

In a span of 24 hours, the nearly 7 billion people on the planet have turned into something so hideous I at first wished for death rather than having to face it and think of it. I was like many people before it hit. Obsessed with popular culture's view of zombies and the like. The glorified edition of what, in reality, is really hell on earth once you are going through it.

Which I am.

Who will read this? Probably no one. I sit here, oddly obsessed with using words to communicate with someone--anyone--because I have not seen another human in over a day. It is amazing that once you are in a so-called "apocolypse", survival is a worry, sure, but not your main concern. Surround yourself with creatures that are no longer human--no longer your neighbors, your friends, your family, but creatures that now thrive on consuming those whom are not infected--and it will amaze you how quickly you feel the complete and unwanted squeeze of loneliness.

Loneliness explains a lot of what I feel right now. That, and guilt. I have, so far, killed three of these creatures. Zombies, so I call them, although it seems to deny that these things were once people. I have killed three creatures that were once fathers, daughters, and friends. I have done it because it is necessary to do to survive. Yet, I am overwhelmed with guilt, and it eats at me while I remain consumed with that inevitable loneliness.

If there is any human left out there--anyone, anyone at all--I hope you come across this and read it after I die, which seems inevitable. My name? Not important. If you run across another human, a true human, not one of those dreaded creatures, there is a very large chance that it is me.

If you instead run across this diary with no owner, let your imagination guess where I am.