Florida. The Sunshine State. I don’t know, I’m not really seeing any sawgrass touching the sky. I don’t even know what sawgrass is. Florida’s a strange place. The haven's not all of Florida, though. It’s just the southern tip of it.

It’s kind of like the haven forgot the world ended. There’s people partying on the beach - they have paper lanterns strung-up everywhere and booze and some live band is playing one-hit-wonders from the ‘90s. Oh, a firework just went off. Yeah, Florida’s like that one drunk uncle who has no concern for who sees what it’s doing.

I mean, it’s great that it’s relaxed here - and apparently you don’t have to work if you don’t want to, which I’m almost 100% I misunderstood - but it’s too chill. There’s this “Council” (AKA Florida’s government) who runs everything really strictly apparently, which I think (if I remember correctly) is an oxymoron. It’s like Disneyland and the Pentagon merged into one. It doesn’t make sense. I mean, I get how they’re so under control and got this survival thing under wraps and all - and that’s why they can celebrate the end of the world 24-freaking-7 - but it’s… it’s odd. Like, I don’t know what to feel about it.

On the plus side, they have like, three layers of walls that not even the biggest horde of HAMs could get through. So it’s pretty fortified. There’s also loads of food - and not just the canned crap everywhere else has. All the veggies and fruits are grown in “urban farms” (whatever that means), and the meat is real meat, probably something that had eyes. I feel kinda fancy being here.

Aaaaand another firework. Green this time. People are getting wasted on the beach. Stay classy, Florida.

- Lacy Greenfield, 10/11/19

Two stations in Washington braced in the early hours of the Great Outbreak. Civilians fled to Fort Lewis and the Vancouver Barracks in northern and southern Washington. When Vancouver fell, trains rushed survivors northward -- myself included. We met with Fort Lewis’s forces and relocated to Olympia’s The Evergreen State College, a school amidst a thick forestry, jutted against a river, and built high with thick walls. Those who survived improved the institution. Rooftop gardens, electric fences, car walls, and a system of paths between tall trees made ours an almost mythic haven. Best of all, we had a Council to give both civilians and soldiers a voice. I was proud-- am still proud of what we achieved. But others wanted what we made. Come October 2020 the Legion sieged. We survived, but by a dirty deal my superiors made without Council approval. The 1007th gave us victory and that very day took control. Our thriving community is a husk now. Something out of Orwell. Something wrong.

-Commander of Civil Defense, Milo ‘Franco’ Francoise, 01/27/20

Somehow Augusta always remained standing. It never had the best defences and it always took everything the citizens there had to rebuild what was destroyed by endless undead attacks. But every time after they won the battle, they would build-up - stronger walls, more barbed wire, better strategies. They never did waste time; once the outbreak was reported in Mexico, Augusta started barricading the town. They used whatever they could and did what it took. There was never a large population in Augusta, so how such a small haven stayed so strong for so long is anyone’s guess. I heard someone say once those reasons are exactly why Augusta thrived: there were never a lot of allies but alway a lot of enemies. The entire population became one hive-mind army, all in it together for survival.

Getting into Augusta was always a challenge. There were undead everywhere. Beyond their walls there was little they could do to keep the dead away. They worked at thinning the crowds converging at every wall, but it never fared well. Winters were easier. Augusta was bitter in winter. The dead became more lethargic, less of a threat. As cruel as a winter in the apocalypse may be, it meant restocking their food stores, expanding their defences and disposing of the dead easily. In some aspects, Augusta was better off when the snow fell.

It’s a town on the East Coast, right on the river. The ocean’s just a little ways down. Augusta was always big on ships; as a haven, it was their trademark. If all else failed and the haven fell, their evacuation plan was resting right on the water. Augusta had the luxury of sending scouting parties out on water to look for safe land or areas to scavenge. They didn’t do that well when it came to supplies, and staying in Augusta meant going hungry. But they didn’t give up.

- Winifred Ross, 11/12/20

Chico was one of the bigger Havens, mostly because it was kind of four Havens lumped into one. You had the actual Chico Haven, where most of the people lived (and it had the most impressive defense walls I’ve ever seen). There was a big marketplace there where you could buy almost anything. Then you had Oroville… which I think was only good for the dam they had there that provided water and electricity. I don’t think a lot of people lived there. Then there was Orland, where all the farms were, and lastly Marysville. I never visited Marysville, but I heard you could hear nothing but the dead on the other side of the walls there.

- Lacy Greenfield, 3/2/19

Chico was a good place. Still is, I reckon. Can't say I'd walk the streets after bar-hopping like I used to. A while back there was word around town about someone getting bit but not turning, long after they should have. The whole place became tight after that. Heavier security, more guards roaming the streets. People protested, wanting to know about it. No one ever said shit to them. Few people got locked up over it. The guards started checking random folk, blood tests and the like. Everyone was on-edge for a long while, but after a few months things died down. No one heard anything more about the person that was supposedly immune. I guess they took them elsewhere.

I was pretty much there at the beginning of Reno Haven. Can’t say it’s changed much since then and I can’t say it’s a good place to be. I mean, yeah, it’s pretty safe from the deaders being in the desert and surrounded by a concrete wall and all, but it’s not the undead you need to worry about there. Most of the businessmen around there are… what’s a nice term? Morally ambiguous? Yeah, that. You gotta be street smart to make it in Reno. Fuck around with the wrong guy and you’ll wake up dead in an alleyway or not being able to find someone willing to sell you a glass of water. The militia generally tries to keep everything peaceful, and the leaders mean well, but they can’t be everywhere at once and they’re pretty lax when it comes to who they let in the walls. I’ve never seen more outbreaks than when I lived in Reno.

Fun is still a pretty big seller there, though. It’s got a lot of that Vegas mentality going and you’ll always find someone willing to buy or sell one of the big three: drinks, drugs, or sex. If you need to relive some of the old-world, Reno is one of those Havens you can do it in. You know, if you’re into that sort of thing.

It wasn’t like the other Havens. There were no great walls keeping us in and them out. There were no trenches or land mines or heavy artillery stationed at watchtowers spaced every hundred feet apart. Just barricades we made from what we found. We put up lots of fences and we patrolled them, day in and day out. It was right in the middle of a city with trees everywhere. It was out of the way, so we didn’t always see lots of undead. But the people of Bismarck never stopped. They were always helpful and willing to fight, and maybe it was that determination that kept things going.

There were lots of fields outside the Haven and a few sub-districts we left alone. Eventually those fields were turned into farmland. Even knowing what was going on to the rest of the world, it didn’t feel a bad in Bismarck. There was always lots of food and warmth. We had gas –there was a gasoline refinery just across this river, and it still worked for a while. It was in another little city, Mandan. It was never fortified like Bismarck, but there were never enough undead there for it to be a danger zone. Groups of people would go out on day-trips to scavenge for necessities, and they always brought back more than enough gas.

There were lots of hunters and lots of wild animals to bring home. I never felt comfortable enough to relax there, but I could see why others did. It wasn’t the most well-defended Haven out there, and it would fall easily from a horde, but the people knew how to make the most of it.

- Winifred Ross, 11/11/25

???

For the longest time, nobody really knew about Mackinac Haven. It’s super secluded, being an island off the coasts of the upper and lower peninsulas of Michigan. Yeah, it’s the same Mackinac that was a tourist town back in the day. You know, with the fudge. People live in the hotels that covered the place, or built homes from the trees. Most people there are fishermen or hunters that are sent to the mainland to get food. The water protects them from the undead almost all year long, but it’s a northern haven and it gets super fucking cold in the winter.

For a few weeks a year the lakes freeze over enough for zeds to walk across them. They call it Horde Season, and it takes the entire population of the haven to fend off the zombies that gather on the shoreline throughout the year. They’ve fenced in the island, but shit still sucks. I’ve only been there for two of them, but I don’t think I’ve killed so many zeds anywhere else in my travels. Once and awhile I’ll get word that some condemned pirates have raided a haven boat or two, but they don’t pose much threat to Mackinac itself. Their leaders keep everything pretty orderly, along with their volunteer force. They get a little too big for their britches, sometimes, and can be a little harsh on their punishments for breaking the rules too. Trust me on that. Other than that it’s an alright place, I guess. Kept my family pretty safe for a long time.

-Cassie Shannahan, Fall ‘22

Being in Topeka Haven was… uncomfortably comfortable. A lot of people just called it “The Church” because it’s a really religious Haven. They had some socially backward ways there, but a lot of the people were nice, wholesome people who just needed support and the Church gave them that support. It had this Western feel to it, like with cowboys and saloons from those old books. They had fences and walls in some areas, but nothing too extreme. The dead just never went around to those parts… it was like they never wanted to.

At dinnertime when the weather was right, we’d have these really big dinners outside on wooden picnic tables until the moon came out, and everyone would laugh and talk. The clothes they wore were bland and you had to work no matter what (and they stuck to some real sexist gender roles), but some days it just felt like home.

It used to be run by a madman named Caecilius. He was kinda seriously warped. He corrupted a lot of the Church because he himself was corrupted. He used to think he was a beacon for God and that God wanted him to do his bidding by converting everyone into the Church, because every sane person thinks that way. He used to send out search parties to find people and, “with force”, make them go back to the Church. Otherwise they were slaughtered – no, sorry, “cleansed” from the world.

Yeah, it’s definitely a better place now that Misty Raines has taken over.

- Lacy Greenfield, 3/2/23

It can be just a small bite or a scratch, or maybe an unlucky blood splatter. I’ve seen victims not know they were infected until they start turning. Sometimes amputation might work if done quickly. But once it starts, it’s always the same. You start coughing too much, and then the fever comes on. Sweating, mucus and phlegm. Soon the vomiting and diarrhea begin.

That lasts for a few hours. A short time after that they become agitated, emotional, reckless and irrational. They’ll get muscle spasms and hallucinations. Soon they stop making sense. They might remember you, but not for long. They’ll attack you, disregard their own safety, become animalistic and suicidal. The person you knew before the infection is no longer there.

It takes just twelve hours. Twelve hours, and a monster is made. It all starts with just a cough.

- Winifred Ross, 10/12/22

It doesn’t take long to figure out that most things don’t seem to phase them. If you want to put them down permanently then you need to take out the brain, either with a bullet to the head - an axe, a sharp blade - even decapitating them is good enough to keep them from getting back up again.

There isn’t a lot else that seems to work, I’ve seen a few of them end up being doused in gas and set on fire before but from what I know it takes a while to reach the brain and cook them and even then, sometimes you’ll have these mangled, burnt bodies which haven’t exactly been put down just yet. The cold sometimes works against them too, I saw it down in Southern Cali a few years back. When it starts snowing and freezing over, I’ve seen a few of them start slowing down or completely icing over. Doesn’t work forever, though - when the ice thaws out so do they.

Take it from me, if you can spare the bullet (and the noise) then use that, otherwise the closest you’ll have to a ‘clean’ method of putting the dead down is by scrambling their heads.

-Trane, 12/05/20

All dead things came back. If you died with the infection, you come back no matter what. Eventually all Infected come back as one of them, and every corpse that had it rises within a day.

They’re slow, only ever going at a normal pace. You can outrun them if there’s only a few. But they’ll follow you to the ends of the earth. They never give up. Sometimes you can see one clawing at the same door it was last week. That’s when the others show up, and soon a loner is just another moan in a horde.

- Winifred Ross, 10/12/22

From what we can tell the Berserker is related to a few other forms of undead. I ran into one first in the forests surrounding Evergreen. They are lanky with lean, tightly woven muscles and tattered skin. Many have patches of hair all about the body, so maybe some of them are still alive like the Infected. Either way, these bastards are dangerous. You’ll hear them howl and their hands and feet, worn to the bone, scratching against the ground. The basic form will tear you to shreds.

Listen. You’re not going to know if it’s a Berserker or Collector from seeing it. The only difference I know is that the Berserker will rip you apart while the Collector will beat you to hell before dragging you to its ‘nest’. Pay attention. Next time you wander through a sleeping tent, question it.

-Simon-Pietro Lombardi, 11/03/20

Ever seen a handless zombie with its forearms gnawed down to a point or its face deformed by its skull splitting through the skin? Then you, my friend, have met a Blader. Nasty, calcium eating zombies that can display two types of behaviors: lone wolf or pack hunter. When in a pack they are impatient, very aggressive but also very reckless. Loners however seem more patient, able to stalk their prey and that makes them more dangerous. Both types tend to have a long memory so don’t expect all your tricks to work forever on them, namely those that have seen said tricks in action.

There’s very few ways in fact that we discovered actually works when killing a Blader: total decapitation and hitting the quarter size kill spot near the nose. If that weren’t bad enough then let’s not forget the fact they can play possum. Yes, possum as in fake death when you fail to kill in those ways I’ve mentioned. They will jump right back up and bite you in the ass when you least expect it.

- Abigail O’Keeffe, 10/28/20

Don't let them get close, either - even with armour, these fuckers have teeth strong enough to crack bone. That's how they get through to the marrow.

- Michael Dougherty - 12/6/19

Sisters of Mercy. Well, their name kinda makes sense… In a fucked up, don’t-wanna-live-anymore kinda way. I’ve never actually seen one, personally, but I’ve gotten close enough to hear one’s wails. These guys, for whatever reason, still have the ability to make basic human noises like crying. They lure you to them with plaintive sounds and then once you get close enough they go for your throat. I’ve been told that they only take that one bite, and then sweetly caress you until you die before actually eating your brains and whatnot. Creepy little shits. They’re also supposedly faster and hardier than the average infected and prefer to hunt alone, so there’s that. I guess the moral of the story is to be careful when you decide to play hero and save the damsel in distress, because she may or may not attempt to lovingly eat your face off.

- Cassie Shannahan, 07/06/21

Ever see a small mountain in the distance, but somehow it’s grown or moved while you haven’t? Titans are extremely large and, we think like the Berserker, somehow developed from the Infected. I’m writing this because we saw one a few days ago on our way to Riley. Not sure where it is now, but the thing was so slow we just kept driving. Miles behind us and I still can’t shake the sight. The head was small, arms and legs hulking, I get the sense we’d need heavy artillery to take it down. They’re slow though -- thankfully. I doubt anything could get in its way. The thing must’ve been two men tall. More.

-Simon-Pietro Lombardi, 10/12/20

Once I came across a HAM. We call them HAM for "huge ass motherfucker," and I don't know who came up with the name per se, but I want to shake that clever bastard's hand. It makes facing a HAM a little more... amusing, I guess? You're not totally afraid to go face-to-face with something named after food, y'know?

They're massive. Not as big as a Titan, but fatter. This doctor a pal of mine knew said it was all growths, this liquid shit stored between fat and muscle, and pus making it jiggle like that. 'Cause those fuckers got bellies bigger than Hell itself. Sounds funny and shit, but the way it belly sags like that makes it produce more stomach acid. Something like when women used to wear corsets and it disfigured their guts, so they'd suffer from intense heartburn. Medical shit like that.

But they're slow. They can't chase you. They'll try to vomit up all that acid on you, which is a total dick move. Just don't go anywhere near them and you're fine. Trust me, you'll smell them from a mile away.

- Sheila Hudson, 05/06/21

The Legion was born under Emperor Guy Keyes. A strong, charismatic man with para-military experience and a respect for the Ancient Roman Empire, he formed the group in their image. Ours is a hardened lot, tested through action with our minds set on the greater good and our souls given in the name of absolute loyalty. We hail from many backgrounds, yet in Legion we are one. Keyes reigns in the west, set on solidifying control in order to establish a new civilization. In the east, many say I reign. Here spreading is less a concern than maintaining our lines. Bandits without loyalties, the Condemned, challenge the lands we’ve built.

The Western Legion stronghold is in eastern Oregon. In the Eastern Legion, I have walls and various safe-zones around the former US Capital. We are more stable here and, truthfully, I am concerned to hear that Keyes may soon move onto this ‘Evergreen Haven’.

- Juneau Motzkin, Emperor of the Eastern Legion, 09/27/20

Listen, we’re not like the others. We don’t buy or sell humans, don’t crucify or torture, and we don’t think take pretend to be some higher class. The 1007th are all that’s left of the good ol’ Red White and Blue. Our aim is to use our training to return order -- that’s it. Freedom means sacrifice. I admit sometimes we act like the devil, but if that’s what it takes to bring back the old America so be it. We started in the east and Evergreen was a big step forward. Why still fight us? We aren’t some big group trying to take over, we are just a skilled, selective bunch who know what it’ll take to get right. If a hundred gotta die so we can bring safety back, so be it. Why don’t they get that?

- Unnamed Soldier, 11/15/21

When they first took over our community, it was to 'protect' us from the dangers of the outside. The dead, the bandits, the legion - it seemed like we'd found ourselves on the better half of the deal, until they started bringing down their authority upon our heads. Twenty four hours a day under martial law isn't a way to live, and yet when we spoke up or even dared to act against it they just blurted on about how it was for our 'own good', and necessary for the restoration of the United States of old - right before they shot us down and shipped the rest off to some far-gone labor camps to 'reinforce our loyalties to the American people'. I'll tell you something, whatever kind of America they're hoping to bring back, it's nothing we'll ever recognise.

- Washington State Refugee, 11/01/20

We are sick of our friends and neighbours being shot or beaten in the streets. The 1007th took over for ‘our protection’, yet it is us who suffer most. Our Council is now a puppet, they have taken our voice. Evergreen will be free again and we won’t wait. This disease must die before it spreads further. Revolution is coming and we are its Shepherd.

- Milo ‘Franco’ Francoise, 11/04/20

I've seen what these jarheads are capable of, the families they've destroyed - the people they've broken. Someone has to take a stand against the 1007th and if that means we drag this into a war - then so be it.
-

C' Avarisque, 11/06/20

You know how many people were in the American Prison System before everything went to shit? 2.3 million. Yes, that’s right - 2.3 million inmates locked up for crimes ranging from tax evasion to first degree murder, and even before it all went to hell it was barely under control. When the infection hit us and the country began to fall apart it wasn’t long before the inmates realised that everything was completely fucked and ended up taking over. These days, they’re a dangerous bunch who don’t take too kindly to outsiders and are just as much of a problem in some places as the bandits or the Legion are. Though, the word is that they respect anyone who can ink them up with tattoos, and there’s a couple folks who reckon that if for some mysterious, suicidal reason you wanted to talk with ‘em - the tat man’s your guy.

- Unnamed Chico Scout, 05/19/20

I guess it’s best to introduce myself, that’s being polite after all. I’m called Abigail O’Keeffe. My name is one of the few things I’ve got left after the world came to an end but I’m proud of it. It’s a wonder I managed to survive this long but that’s what I am: a survivor. I’m not a fighter and when it comes to down to it, my reflexes are better at flight than combat. I can run like crazy and pretty far too at the most important times because that’s what I’m built for. I’m lean even under my slightly oversized flannel and grey tank, to my two sizes too big boots and thinning jeans so I have to think around situations that require brawn. So far I’m still here after all this time.

I look like a redheaded farm girl that’s outgrown her birth place and while some say I’m a very pretty thing, I don’t feel like it. My girlfriend always scowled when I disagreed, she said her favorite features were my light green eyes that seemed to hold a hint of the old world innocence and rosy pink lips that were rather kissable. I know she got a kick from the blush across my white face and freckles though how she could tell since it’s usually covered in dirt and grime is a mystery to me. It’s been a long time, hard to believe I’m now eighteen when I still feel like that scared thirteen years old sometimes. I can use a composite bow decent enough to kill deer, infected and other dangers to me if needed yet I’ll admit finding arrows isn’t easy. Most the arrows I have were made from resources I found and yes, they might not be the best but they work just fine for my needs. Each one is precious so I tend not to leave them behind if I can. Why not use a gun you ask? Pretty simple really, I’m terrified of them because one day when I was young, a bullet could’ve ended my life. It crashed through the window and nicked my cheek so now I’ve got a phobia of guns, namely those bigger than a handgun. My aim with my small knife, wooden baseball bat, composite or a reconstructed bow, I can manage a hit most the time. Give me a handgun… I would be lucky to hit one out of every ten targets I try for.

I came from a normal family of five, my parents, twin brothers and me, which lived in New York. Not the best place in the world and left in shambles, mostly, when the meteors hit. When the infection was just rumors circulating around, my father was comatose after being caught in a riot. It ended up being mom and me that stayed, my brothers sent out west to a relative's house. During the trip home, we became caught up in a life and death struggle when infected chased us down an alleyway. My life saved by a stranger’s, Kurtis Connor, kindness while behind a closed door I heard my mother eaten alive and telling me to run. We made it out of the city and stuck together, keeping each other safe. He taught me how to use the composition bow, construct a crude one if needed, and everything about archery, including arrow making. Even tried to get me over my fear of guns but only managed to get me able to use a handgun without shaking. I still freeze up at loud shoots like machine and shotgun from time to time. We came to Eden. A small town with more land than population, they willingly took us in and that’s when I met Kathrin. My girlfriend and yes, I’m bisexual though I didn’t know it then.

At Eden I was a jack of all trades. From cooking (not well mind you!) to cleaning, mostly rigging up quick fixes until more permanent solutions- ones that never happened- were found. So to be honest, I was used to traveling long walks with about 4 hours sleep across Eden.

It was a few days ago when Kat died. We were salvaging for whatever little remained around the town and it seemed something was stalking us. Kat immediately shoved me into a coffin, my gun in her hand, before investigating it. It’s hard to explain what it’s like to hear someone you love screaming, flesh ripping, and dying when you’re so close yet helpless to save her. Just like my mother...I don’t think the term ‘Hell on earth’ came even close to reliving that. So add claustrophobia to the list. When it had been silent for a long time, I made a hole that allowed me to unblock the coffin and came out. She was dead. Whatever killed her was long gone. I still regret not burying her as I ran off instead . I saw in the distance that Eden was gone, over ran by infected.

I drove for two days straight on pure fear toward Fort Riley, Kansas, stopping only once when I hit a gas station and seemed to attracted unwanted company. It was around the second or third day I met the Farmers and the small group they traveled with to the same place. That first meeting was interesting. I admit to having a particular fondness for the girls, namely Lacy since she reminds me of my brothers. They would’ve been around her age right now. While I still hope to see Kurtis again one day, I can’t dwell on that thinking forever or yet face a possibility that I might never see him again. I’m starting to get sick of losing those I love nowadays and a pain swelling in my heart that I really wish wasn’t there. Does it just get worse before it ever gets better, I wonder? Or does it just never get better at all?

One thing I will always remember is that nothing is permanent and people die. It’s hard to accept, I know, but now it’s all I know is a guarantee.

-Abbie O’Keeffe

I saw Tony doin’ something like this. Thought I’d join in. Maybe I’d get Brick to do it if I did it. Hell if I know. Name’s Allie, I’m from Tennessee, born and raised in Nashville to be exact. I was a techy kid back in 2010 and so, always tinkering with shit and figuring out where to go. I was about a month away from getting my engineering degree when everything went to hell, which is completely bullshit by the way because if we ever somehow fix this and I come out alive I’ll have to do it over again. I'm about 24 give or take a month or so, birthday was in late March.

I was a city kid, I know people, and I’ll tell you we haven’t changed a damn bit, as sad as that sounds. Conflict and self-interest drives everyone. You don’t want to die? Make that person a deal that benefits them more that killing you would. But being a city kid gave me a few skills. Rolling blunts, hotwiring cars, hell I should’ve been in a gang for the shit I know how to do. The only difference between me and the Condemned is that I wasn’t caught and I happen to be able to think of other things besides steal, rape, kill in that order, or in reverse order. Hell if I know what they do, I wouldn’t be surprised with either. Growing up was a bit tough, but I got through it, and I’ll get through this if it kills me… That was an ironic sentence. I like to think myself a pretty girl, I’m tall for what the average used to be 5'8 or so, and slender just by build and nature. I’ve been eating plenty more than I should- don’t worry. My hair's been cut, just like Tony’s beard, it’s just long enough to the point where it falls just a little farther down than my eyebrows. I don’t dress like Tony does, I favor less of a defender and more of the quick and easy to get away kind of clothing. Tony seems to be nearly immune to all forms of weather somehow, but I on the other hand am much more sensitive. I wear tight jeans or leggings, or whatever I have that’s clean, a green shirt of any kind and a brown leather jacket. I also have a glove on my right hand. I lost the other one. I tend to wear sunglasses and a bandana. I wear simple running shoes, and I don’t plan on replacing them until they’ve been used. I have tied a pistol holster to my thigh that holds an M1911. I’ve fashioned a flashlight to the bottom of it, but I don’t have a battery for it right now. I have a knife in each one of my socks. I wouldn’t dare use one of those on a walker, but on a person? Sure, game on. My weapons of choice have to be my baseball bat or my hunting bow (NOT compound boy, simpler than that). The quiver is kept next to my backpack, which mostly holds changes of clothes, and a few essentials. I’d probably be dead if it weren’t for Tony, being real here. Because I just don’t have the space on me to be fast and nimble while also being a walking caravan.

The worst part of the apocalypse so far, is I think I might be pregnant with Brick’s child, and I have no idea how to tell him, or how we’re going to manage this, if we’re even capable of it.

I miss how the world used to be.

-Allison ‘Allie’ Notari

???

If you’ve found this, I’m either dead, drunk, lost my journal, or just don’t give a fuck. Hell, I could be all four.

The world’s full of shitty people, and its no place for old dogs like me anymore. Traces of the old life are disappearing left and right and the chance of being reminded of my family is growing smaller and smaller everyday, just like most of our humanity. I’ve gotten this far on sheer luck and wisdom, whatever the hell that is, alone. Where are my manners, here I was talking about the old days and I forgot something that I hope never fades- manners. I’m Anthony Vanos, born and raised in Skagway, Alaska.

I’m a big man, some of my friends used to call me bear hugger. Six foot something and a little over two hundred pounds. I forget how much, being fifty-three has hit my memory hardest. Some people said I looked like a jolly man back in the day, smile on his face with lumberjack getup and big red nose and the busy brown beard of a man with a warm heart, or was it a stomach full of warm beer? Hell if I care. Shaved my beard a few years ago after a close call, It wasn’t hard to keep my hair short. I’m starting to lose it anyways. I look every day of every year of my age, and if it weren’t for the ski mask and tinted goggles you’d probably see an old man with a pinched up angry face. I aint angry all the time, I swear, the cold froze my face that way several years ago.

Growing up in Alaska made me a tough motherfucker, probably another reason why I made it this far. Make me smart too; I knew when to move out of Alaska and through Canada. Doing it in winter or fall would’ve been suicide. It taught me how to be prepared. Underneath my heavy duty winter coat is a set of Ski armor. It’s not going to hold walkers back forever, but it and the coat together will at least buy me a few seconds to think. Something that’s saved my sorry old ass a few times now. Now that’s it’s spring I’ve adopted a slightly lighter coat, and ditched my ski mask and goggles for the time being in favor of some sunglasses. My shoes are like cleated hiking boots, and I use them for how they’re meant to be used. I got a backpack with some food and a few thermoses with water in it. I got myself some plastic cooking gear and fire-starting materials like matched, flint and lighters that I had before everything went to shit. Rope and some painkillers I’ve collected are in there as well. I wouldn’t take them all at once. I have no idea what some of them do. My watch functions as a compass. I’ve got sunscreen that I grabbed for some reason, and a give ass medical kit that I’ve scratched together. I used to go hunting a lot with my son back in the day, I have an old hunting rifle with a scope, and a Glock 17 strapped to my hip. I only have a few rounds left of that thing. My main weapon choices are my woodcutter’s axe and hatchet, which is normally carried in on of my hands at all times. I also have an emergency hatchet on my other hip. I used to have a sleeping bag, but I ditched that when I saw some poor kid get torn apart in his sleep for sleeping on the ground. Most of the time you cant tell what I look like due to how much stuff I have on. Because I have so much I tend to stick in the colder states. I’ll be the one in the snowstorms scavenging when no one else is outside. I like my zombies cold and slow, because those weird ones are just as frozen all the others are.

People say they’re surprised by me when they first see me. They always say something about how I act like I’m part of the legion. I just… I want to get close to people, I’m a good man I promise, and I know we’ve all lost a lot in the past years, but I don’t want to loose everything again. A few people like Brick and Allie have managed to get on my good side, but these days I’m struggling to find things worth fighting for. I might just hang back one of these days with the bottle of wine I have in my pack and a gun and just wait for the walkers to show up and join my family again. I’m a good, god-fearing man, but I think he’d understand when an old dog has had enough.

-Anthony ‘Tony’ Vanos.

tuation alive. I've done some bad thing, I'm no liar, but everything I've done is just another thing that plagues my conscious. I worry that one day I won't be preoccupied enough to block most of my regrets out my head, but right now I'm too busy keeping myself afloat to worry about what I owe the rest of the human race. Like I was saying though, I'm street smart - but I'm pretty intelligent as it goes, at least when compared to 99% of people from my neighbourhood. I actually like to read. That's the only thing I can do in my spare time. Read. The written word has taught me a lot - but in all honest, right now the street smarts are serving me better. Bit of know-how never hurt nobody anyways.

In terms of my looks, I'd say I'm respectable. I was one of the better looking in my part of town - but that isn't exactly something I'd call an achievement what with all the mutilations in my area. It goes without saying that my skin is black. I'm about six foot tall, but I've never given enough of a damn to actually measure myself. I'm in good shape, toned, and I have been for all my life - I had to work hard to survive even before the so-called 'apocalypse' came about. I also didn't mind shooting a hoop or two when I had the time. My jawline is quite distinct, but my face isn't too harsh in it's features. My hair, when grown out, is afro, but I keep it cut short 'cus it gets a pain in the ass when it's long and I don't have the time to brush that shit. I have a short beard growing on my chin, but I might shave it off if I get a chance - it's not on my priority list. My voice is deep and quite gravelly, I speak in quite a lazy way.

From where I'm from, you've got yourself to watch out for and relying on anyone else is a weakness that will probably see yourself get killed. I always wished I had grown up in a better place, but now that I've been thrown in to this shit-storm, I guess I am thankful for the preparation that it gave me. It probably saved my ass. Unfortunately it wasn't enough to prevent the deaths of my family and friends. Detroit was swarming before long. One of my most painful memories to this day was putting a bullet in the head of my friend's skull as he lost his grip on humanity. Luckily, since then, I've found it much easier to kill people. I have to face facts. I'm a murderer. That's if you can count whatever these things are as alive. If not, then I guess I'm just a mortician.

After seeing my crew die, I got the hell out of Detroit and hit the road. I wasn't going to take any risks, so I followed my rules and I trusted nobody, at least not at first. I survived in the wastelands of Michigan for a good amount of time, but it got more and more dangerous as weeks passed. I ran out of food and I ran out of ammunition. I ran out of hope. Luckily, just when I was about to give up, I caught a line that there was some place that I could go and find safety. Some guy told me who was on his way up there. It was a haven, Mackinac island. I somehow managed to make my way up there and that's where I have been for most of the time since this shit started. I often left the island to scavenge for whatever sort of stuff could keep me fed and watered there - it's not like they're going to do it for free, shit, I wouldn't. Anyway, I left that place a couple of weeks ago - the folk were too damn cagey and, honestly, I have heard there are other places, better places. I was alone there. I'd rather die than be alone.

Anyway, here's hoping that this bullshit blows over at some point. It sounds like I'm kidding myself with that, looking at the world around me. It's nothing like it once was. Still, I can hope that some guy in a lab coat somewhere is doing something positive. Maybe.

Regards, Manu.

P.S: If you're reading this I'm probably dead. Shit.

8/3/2019

It's my birthday today. I'm surprised I know that, given the state the world is in.

If you've found this tape, my name is Leopold Walsh, but you can call me Leo for short. I'm a... "collector", of sorts. I scour the land, searching for relics of a lost age; keepsakes of a bygone era. Pocketwatches, magazines, DVD cases, comic books, guns... even calendars. Probably how I know that today's my birthday. It's weird, right? Almost five years have passed and we're already in a different time. Everything's pretty much gone, and it's the remains of us that are left -- or maybe it's just me. Maybe, I'm the only one left.

Sorry. I tend to go off on a tangent, sometimes. Bit of an imagination, you could say, but not too far off from the reality we face. My items, right. That's where I was going with this whole thing. I've faced my fair share of conflict; did battle with bandits and the like who wanted my stuff, but I fought and I fought well. By now, my body's got to be covered with scars. I don't know. I rarely check now.

38 years old. I'm 38 years old, and the years have not been kind. I don't even look the same as I used to. To be honest with you, I never thought I'd last this long. I'm not really talking about now; just before it all went down. I wasn't happy with who I was, where I was. Working dead-end jobs to make things meet, only to go home and sleep in a bed with someone who never really loved me. She's dead, now. A fitting end to her lie? I don't think it was. I never wished death on her. Just wished she was honest. I wasted time that could have been better spent doing...

Ugh. Sorry. Tangent again, hah. Keep it together, Leo.

When all of this is over... IF all of this ends, I plan to open my own museum. It'll be small, yeah, but full of nostalgia. I want people to remember that we had a life before this. Even if they do remember, they still need to be reminded of the progress we made. We've done so much for ourselves. It's not outside the realm of possibility for us to do it again.

I can hear them again. The loud screams, the growling. Those monsters. They're getting clos--

---

10/26/2019

I found a picture of a family today. Man, woman, two kids. They looked so happy. I wonder what happened to them.

My family was nothing like theirs. My mother and father constantly fought. If it wasn't the bills, it was the infidelity. If not that, then it was me. I don't know where along the road when I started becoming a problem to them, but I was old enough to realize that when they talked about me, it hurt. Okay, so maybe, I wasn't that great of a kid. I had my share of problems. Couldn't focus on things the way others could. I was lost in my imagination. In truth, it was a better place to be. From time to time, it still is; just less so, as being caught off guard now can get you killed.

The divorce was especially hard to take. Pops' infidelity caught up with him, and Mom wasn't having it. It was tumultuous. Possessions halved, custody battles, seeing Dad with that girl. I couldn't understand it at first; was kinda hazy and really fast. Next thing I knew, I was with another relative. Didn't see Mom or Dad for a while. I learned later that she killed herself and he... just disappeared for good. Aunt Hazel was kind to me; the closest representation to a parent that I could actually find, but she's gone now. Rest easy, auntie.

By the time she died, I moved out, ready to pace the world on my own. At least, I thought so. Didn't have money, and the job I worked paid very little. Toss that on top of college debt, and it's a recipe for homelessness. By chance, I had grown fond of another student. Jenna Carter, straight-laced good girl. Our relationship was good for a while. We were in love, but it started to dwindle as the years went by. We got married, but I was still in debt, so we never had that much money. I kept piling on jobs in hopes of clearing the debt. I laugh about it now. All I had to do was wait. The apocalypse would take care of it for me.

Jenna? She and I divorced. She didn't take anything. "Nothing of value," she said. That hurt a lot more than I thought it would. She didn't value anything about our relationship. Or maybe she did, but just lost heart. The last I heard, she was killed somewhere near Ventura, California. Long time ago, towards the start of the outbreak, it seems. I survived, but barely.

And now, I'm holding onto this picture. I could put it in the museum. A remembrance of happiness. Yeah, that sounds pretty good.

---

1/30/2020

Gone. All of it, gone.

I don't know how it happened. It was a blur. I saw this girl on the side of the road, bawling her eyes out. I walked up to her, wanted to see what was wrong, and got ambushed. They started rummaging through my things. MY things. That was all mine. I worked hard for everything I collected. I stared down the barrel of a gun into the toothless face of a bandit as they picked and threw everything everywhere. When they were done, they were going to kill me. If it wasn't for the horde of infected that showed up, I might have been another bloodstain on the road. I picked myself up and I ran amidst the chaos. The bandits were too busy with the horde to deal with me. By the time it was over, I was a ghost.

But... everything is gone. I've got a calendar, a revolver, and this recorder. Everything else is left to the wind.

I shouldn't have helped. I should have shot her. Never again. I'll never let myself trust like that again.

Time to start over.

21 September 2020

As the ferocity of winter's bite grows, I find myself thinking of before. In the blink of an eye I'm walking in the California sun as a child. Parents ahead of me, my older brother walking by my side. Those memories are fragments. I remember later on a bit better. The day we moved to the Pacific Northwest, just in time for the freak ice storm. Maybe I had seen snow, but never so much, and never like that. Despite my brother and I being teens we played like snot-nosed kids. Throwing snowballs, 'building' snow huts, just acting making total fools out of ourselves without a care. We didn't give a shit. Most of our lives were spent in a place where a number of houses had to have water trucked to them. Give us a couple feet of ice and snow -- how could we not freak out? That was before everything changed. Before the first frost meant a new struggle. Nevertheless, even with this new reality and the challenges it brings, I still smile at the thought of winter. I still smile at the thought of snow. And I hope to have the chance to be that snivelling California kid with his older brother.

13 December 2020

According to my count it's been about three months. This trip has been long, and It might be foolish, but I've already made it to Centralia. The roads clear once you're out of the major cities and suburbs and the junk left behind is amazing. From the looks of it there are definitely bandits, but nothing like the rumours I've heard elsewhere. Supposedly the gang of note here is called 'Legion'. It's funny, because my brother was always artsy and he'd study the old Greek-or-Roman works. He'd probably flip to see his cultural wet-dream reduced to bunch of brutes with guns. Well, what with the stories, I hope he'd just run. These guys seem seriously tweaked like the sort who'd shoot first then check for zed later. I'm sure he's fine. I mean, I don't even know if he's alive still, but if he is, I'm sure he'd know better.

2 January 2021

I didn't expect to find him here, honestly. A part of me hoped and dreamt that despite all the horrors and chaos he'd somehow be here waiting. The more childish part of me thought I might even surprise him. Deep down, I never expected to make it this far. After things went to shit and I decided to get moving, the thought of finding him was really just an excuse. Staying where was before was like lying in my coffin. The search for my brother was just my denial at work, my mind coping with the fact that there really was no reason for me to exist any more. I knew how much he spoke about Olympia and after passing by his old, burnt out flat, I figured why not. At worst, I died on the trip up. At best... well, I had my hopes.

Finding Evergreen State was surreal. I made this drive dozens of times back when he was a student and this was still a college. Back then Evergreen State meant free love, hard studies, weed, and creative freedom. He started school at the same time I enlisted too. When I went to visit I just remember the conversations with the 'Greeners'. I had only just completed boot camp and was already growing more rigid, perhaps more conservative. Speaking to them about politics, religion, and philosophy undid what weeks of tireless training had worked to establish. I never felt so alive and doubtful. The systems that I had only just learned to trust with my life seemed nothing more than illusions to convince me to throw my life away. I just remember thinking, both laughing and crying, that I wish the Recruiter's Office had been here. I wished I'd heard what a person could make for themselves with education and support rather than discipline and apathy. The Evergreen of today is far different. I only just arrived, and I expected some fortification if anyone had survived, but the guards here are well armed. When the gates opened I'd expected a rag-tag group just doing their best. Instead, I was met with a trained military force. How much has really changed?

4 January 2021

Shortly after arriving to Evergreen I was taken into a dark room. Although they grabbed me as I finished my last entry, they left me with both my journal and pen. The only things they took were the most obvious weapons. That said, despite the poor lighting, I could clearly see myself in the mirror. Multiple means to create a weapon or, I guess, kill myself. Maybe that's the point.

Seeing myself in the mirror was more startling than isolation. I normally wear my hair short and have no patience for scraggly facial hair. Haven't had much choice lately, hell, I really haven't cared either. My face is now a dark tan and both long as well as gaunt. The bottom half is consumed by an untamed beard that curves toward the center at a point a few inches below my chin. Atop of my head is a mess of long hair that I've clearly let tangle -- not dread, mind you, this is far worse. The hair stretches down to my chest. Somehow all of this is a surprise. Somehow I never realized just how long it'd been since I saw myself. Or maybe I had. Maybe I'd walked by mirrors countless times and just not cared until now. Until I found others. How long has it even been?

10 January 2021

I have been given the choice to stay or go. Something seems off about the soldiers here and the community, well, they don't express much anything. I've cleaned up a little, but kept all the hair. I consider it my way of not settling. They gave me the choice to stay or go, but it doesn't matter. I saw my brother's name on a document. He's alive. They have a sketch of him on a wanted poster.

There really is no choice. I didn't expect it to be this way, but if this is how I find you, so be it. See you soon, Simon.

21 February 2021

Training with the 1007th has been brutal. My time in the Marines prepared me for physical side, not to mention walking some hundreds of miles just to get here. What really has me sweating is the intensity of these people. Can you even call them people? Most of them would sooner mow down a few travellers rather than hitch them a ride. They have what little fuel is left, great weapons, and even body armour, but it's like they're afraid of every little thing. Why? I know my strength and had to make my own weapons while out in the wilds. With their armaments I'm not the least bit concerned. What stops them from thinking like me and seeing this as the potential to help? Maybe that's conceded.

23 February 2021

I was told that I didn't know my own limits yesterday. They told me my strength and ingenuity was wasted on someone who didn't know the end of their abilities. Since when do these guys get off going philosophical on me? Most of them are murderers, dammit. But fine, I'll accept that. I've been told before I'm bullheaded and been hurt because of it, probably will again. It's like I see a challenge and can't back away, and that might sound pathetic, but it's pretty damn serious when that challenge can easily break you. Otherwise, I feel pretty well established in this world. I can take more punches than most, and often do, but I usually figure it out on my own.

I will admit, this journal has really helped. Looking back at my entries, I hadn't spoken to a single living person for at least six months before arriving here in January. If I hadn't been writing I'd probably have been some dribbling fool. Can't say I'm some Casanova nowadays, I'm nowhere near as charismatic as my brother, but at least I can hold a conversation.

...

- Tomás Gellemo Lombardi

My name is Roark Ronan, 27 years old. My parents had a thing for the ‘R’ sound. Allie and Tony call me Brick. I’m gonna keep this short, because I have things to do and I need to do my part to keep our little rag tag group alive. I’m from Alice Springs, Australia, and I moved to the USA when I was about seven. I’m the group’s leg breaker. I do the work that they don’t want to and most of the heaviest lifting that they cant. Tony tries to keep up, but there’s only so much an old fart like him can do without him pulling something. And we need him, as much as I hate to admit it. Allie could assist, and she does sometimes when she can, but most of the time she’s out doing one thing or another a little ways away from us, in a way she can do better than either of us can.

I’m not huge, about five foot ten or something, but I’m dense as a brick, hence my nickname. Last time I checked, which was a while ago so it’s give or take, I was nearly two hundred pounds despite not looking like I weigh more than 150 something. I dress to look my part. I’m not as fast as Allie, but I’m not as much of a utility as Tony is. I wear cargo pants, and a pair of steel toed work boots. I also tend to wear a white tank top that looks like it’s had the shit beat out of it, and a black leather hooded jacket that I scavenged off the ground. It’s got plenty of pockets around it. Great for storing shit. I stole Anthony’s idea and snagged some Motocross padding that I wear underneath my pants and over my tank top, underneath my jacket. I hate to say it, but the old man knows his shit. On my face I wear a shark jaws bandana and sunglasses, much like Tony and Allie. It works, the bandana keeps shit out, zombie blood and other air crap, and the sunglasses keep the sun out of my eyes. Just about all of my skin is covered, only person who has much of any skin shown is Allie who's lacking a glove. Hell even I have a pair of those on. You can see some of our faces I guess, if that counts. Take off my bandana and you'll see I've got short cropped brown hair, a rather square face and the typical Australian scruff that makes me look like a younger version of Chris Hemsworth according to Tony, who will pick fun at me for it from time to time.

I am a time bomb with an accent when it comes to anger management, and that’s why I don’t do the talking and more of just do what I’m good at. I’m the first to admit that I’m that way. I've always been that way since I got into some MMA about five years ago. I'm not master or anything like that but I've always been able to hold my own in a fight, that just taught me how to properly punch back. Allie and Tony aren’t the kind of people who will kill you, but they are the types who know someone who will get the job done. I am that person to them. Honestly, it’s not like I want to kill people, but I’ve seen so much death that I’m just… desensitized to it by now. I understand that most people have trouble letting go, I was there many times, but death has become an everyday occurrence. I’m more focused on not letting what happened to them happen to Tony, Allie, and I. Despite what everyone may think upon first meeting me, I don’t hate anyone, I just care about the others more. Tony’s pretty much my dad and I owe the man my life and three times over the respect I show him, and Allie’s the only link I have back to how life was before this happened. I love her more than anyone I’ve ever known. I personally bury every living person I kill out of respect. From one survivor to another.

My weapons of choice include a Sawn-off shotgun and my G22 and Beretta M9 pistols. I have one strapped to each of my hips. Along my thigh I have the sheath to a Schrade Kukri machete, which houses one of my more deadly weapons. My final weapon, and the one I use more than any other and my weapon of choice, is my Annihilator crowbar, which I found in a home depot. I can be seen carrying it more often than not, and if I’m not it’s tied to the right side of my backpack balancing out my shotgun (which is tied to the other side) for easy retrieval for use.

Finally, my most distinct feature is that my dog, Diesel, just about always accompanies me wherever I go. Diesel is a six-year-old male Rottweiler, probably weighs a little north of 140lbs. My mum used to train dogs for various different purposes, and while I wasn’t always the best at helping her, I was able to improvise and teach Diesel to be a guard dog. He will attack and defend on command and knows where to bite to kill well enough. Rottweiler’s were pretty renowned for their bite before everything went to shit, I’m glad I wont get in trouble for it now. He’s sweet as can be when he’s not on alert, and acts, as a wonderful early warning system for us, cause he can smell and hear things we can’t. Allie takes him hunting sometimes. If he catches them early enough he can bring down or distract deer for her. Tony spoils him rotten; I think Diesel, Allie, and I are the only things keeping him going now.

My legal name is Emmanuel Okoro, Jr., though I suppose my legal name doesn't really matter much any more. My friends used to call me Manu, back when I had friends, before they died. Before I had to kill them. It doesn't matter though, call me what you want, but I guess I'll introduce myself as Manu for now.

My name, my blood and my family comes from West Africa. Nigeria, to be exact. I have never been there myself, only heard stories from my late mother and father. Sometimes I figure it would be safer there than here, which is kind of ironic when considering the whole reason my family moved here was because they thought it would be everything the TV said it was; The American Dream. Maybe it seemed like a dream back when they booked the flight but it sure as shit ain't now. I've never seen no dream in which you have to send your pre-teen kid out on to the streets to hustle for dimes that might not even guarantee your next meal. Some promised land. Either way, I'm here, and I'm stuck here. I was born in Detroit, Michigan in the less tourist friendly side of town - about 24 years ago right about now, I don't really know to be honest, I lost track of the date a while ago.

I like to think I've got a lot going for me. I've got what some people would call street smarts. I can survive on my own, I can handle a gun and I ain't afraid to punch someone's lights out if it means I can get out of a sticky situation alive. I've done some bad thing, I'm no liar, but everything I've done is just another thing that plagues my conscious. I worry that one day I won't be preoccupied enough to block most of my regrets out my head, but right now I'm too busy keeping myself afloat to worry about what I owe the rest of the human race. Like I was saying though, I'm street smart - but I'm pretty intelligent as it goes, at least when compared to 99% of people from my neighbourhood. I actually like to read. That's the only thing I can do in my spare time. Read. The written word has taught me a lot - but in all honest, right now the street smarts are serving me better. Bit of know-how never hurt nobody anyways.

In terms of my looks, I'd say I'm respectable. I was one of the better looking in my part of town - but that isn't exactly something I'd call an achievement what with all the mutilations in my area. It goes without saying that my skin is black. I'm about six foot tall, but I've never given enough of a damn to actually measure myself. I'm in good shape, toned, and I have been for all my life - I had to work hard to survive even before the so-called 'apocalypse' came about. I also didn't mind shooting a hoop or two when I had the time. My jawline is quite distinct, but my face isn't too harsh in it's features. My hair, when grown out, is afro, but I keep it cut short 'cus it gets a pain in the ass when it's long and I don't have the time to brush that shit. I have a short beard growing on my chin, but I might shave it off if I get a chance - it's not on my priority list. My voice is deep and quite gravelly, I speak in quite a lazy way.

From where I'm from, you've got yourself to watch out for and relying on anyone else is a weakness that will probably see yourself get killed. I always wished I had grown up in a better place, but now that I've been thrown in to this shit-storm, I guess I am thankful for the preparation that it gave me. It probably saved my ass. Unfortunately it wasn't enough to prevent the deaths of my family and friends. Detroit was swarming before long. One of my most painful memories to this day was putting a bullet in the head of my friend's skull as he lost his grip on humanity. Luckily, since then, I've found it much easier to kill people. I have to face facts. I'm a murderer. That's if you can count whatever these things are as alive. If not, then I guess I'm just a mortician.

After seeing my crew die, I got the hell out of Detroit and hit the road. I wasn't going to take any risks, so I followed my rules and I trusted nobody, at least not at first. I survived in the wastelands of Michigan for a good amount of time, but it got more and more dangerous as weeks passed. I ran out of food and I ran out of ammunition. I ran out of hope. Luckily, just when I was about to give up, I caught a line that there was some place that I could go and find safety. Some guy told me who was on his way up there. It was a haven, Mackinac island. I somehow managed to make my way up there and I set up a camp near the island, scavenged for goods and sold them to the islanders for goods. I survived pretty good, but I was all by myself other than when I met with the islanders. Anyway, I left that place a couple of weeks ago - the folk were too damn cagey and, honestly, I have heard there are other places, better places. I was alone there. I'd rather die than be alone.

Anyway, here's hoping that this bullshit blows over at some point. It sounds like I'm kidding myself with that, looking at the world around me. It's nothing like it once was. Still, I can hope that some guy in a lab coat somewhere is doing something positive. Maybe.

Regards, Manu.

P.S: If you're reading this I'm probably dead. Shit.

If you’ve found this, I’m either dead, drunk, lost my journal, or just don’t give a fuck. Hell, I could be all four.

The world’s full of shitty people, and its no place for old dogs like me anymore. Traces of the old life are disappearing left and right and the chance of being reminded of my family is growing smaller and smaller everyday, just like most of our humanity. I’ve gotten this far on sheer luck and wisdom, whatever the hell that is, alone. Where are my manners, here I was talking about the old days and I forgot something that I hope never fades- manners. I’m Anthony Vanos, born and raised in Skagway, Alaska.

I’m a big man, some of my friends used to call me bear hugger. Six foot something and a little over two hundred pounds. I forget how much, being fifty-three has hit my memory hardest. Some people said I looked like a jolly man back in the day, smile on his face with lumberjack getup and big red nose and the busy brown beard of a man with a warm heart, or was it a stomach full of warm beer? Hell if I care. Shaved my beard a few years ago after a close call, It wasn’t hard to keep my hair short. I’m starting to lose it anyways. I look every day of every year of my age, and if it weren’t for the ski mask and tinted goggles you’d probably see an old man with a pinched up angry face. I aint angry all the time, I swear, the cold froze my face that way several years ago.

Growing up in Alaska made me a tough motherfucker, probably another reason why I made it this far. Make me smart too; I knew when to move out of Alaska and through Canada. Doing it in winter or fall would’ve been suicide. It taught me how to be prepared. Underneath my heavy duty winter coat is a set of Ski armor. It’s not going to hold walkers back forever, but it and the coat together will at least buy me a few seconds to think. Something that’s saved my sorry old ass a few times now. Now that’s it’s spring I’ve adopted a slightly lighter coat, and ditched my ski mask and goggles for the time being in favor of some sunglasses. My shoes are like cleated hiking boots, and I use them for how they’re meant to be used. I got a backpack with some food and a few thermoses with water in it. I got myself some plastic cooking gear and fire-starting materials like matched, flint and lighters that I had before everything went to shit. Rope and some painkillers I’ve collected are in there as well. I wouldn’t take them all at once. I have no idea what some of them do. My watch functions as a compass. I’ve got sunscreen that I grabbed for some reason, and a give ass medical kit that I’ve scratched together. I used to go hunting a lot with my son back in the day, I have an old hunting rifle with a scope, and a Glock 17 strapped to my hip. I only have a few rounds left of that thing. My main weapon choices are my woodcutter’s axe and hatchet, which is normally carried in on of my hands at all times. I also have an emergency hatchet on my other hip. I used to have a sleeping bag, but I ditched that when I saw some poor kid get torn apart in his sleep for sleeping on the ground. Most of the time you cant tell what I look like due to how much stuff I have on. Because I have so much I tend to stick in the colder states. I’ll be the one in the snowstorms scavenging when no one else is outside. I like my zombies cold and slow, because those weird ones are just as frozen all the others are.

People say they’re surprised by me when they first see me. They always say something about how I act like I’m part of the legion. I just… I want to get close to people, I’m a good man I promise, and I know we’ve all lost a lot in the past years, but I don’t want to loose everything again. A few people like Brick and Allie have managed to get on my good side, but these days I’m struggling to find things worth fighting for. I might just hang back one of these days with the bottle of wine I have in my pack and a gun and just wait for the walkers to show up and join my family again. I’m a good, god-fearing man, but I think he’d understand when an old dog has had enough.

-Anthony ‘Tony’ Vanos.

I saw Tony doin’ something like this. Thought I’d join in. Maybe I’d get Brick to do it if I did it. Hell if I know. Name’s Allie, I’m from Tennessee, born and raised in Nashville to be exact. I was a techy kid back in 2010 and so, always tinkering with shit and figuring out where to go. I was about a month away from getting my engineering degree when everything went to hell, which is completely bullshit by the way because if we ever somehow fix this and I come out alive I’ll have to do it over again. I'm about 24 give or take a month or so, birthday was in late March.

I was a city kid, I know people, and I’ll tell you we haven’t changed a damn bit, as sad as that sounds. Conflict and self-interest drives everyone. You don’t want to die? Make that person a deal that benefits them more that killing you would. But being a city kid gave me a few skills. Rolling blunts, hotwiring cars, hell I should’ve been in a gang for the shit I know how to do. The only difference between me and the Condemned is that I wasn’t caught and I happen to be able to think of other things besides steal, rape, kill in that order, or in reverse order. Hell if I know what they do, I wouldn’t be surprised with either. Growing up was a bit tough, but I got through it, and I’ll get through this if it kills me… That was an ironic sentence. I like to think myself a pretty girl, I’m tall for what the average used to be 5'8 or so, and slender just by build and nature. I’ve been eating plenty more than I should- don’t worry. My hair’s been cut, just like Tony’s beard, it’s just long enough to the point where it falls just a little farther down than my eyebrows. I don’t dress like Tony does, I favor less of a defender and more of the quick and easy to get away kind of clothing. Tony seems to be nearly immune to all forms of weather somehow, but I on the other hand am much more sensitive. I wear tight jeans or leggings, or whatever I have that’s clean, a green shirt of any kind and a brown leather jacket. I also have a glove on my right hand. I lost the other one. I tend to wear sunglasses and a bandana. I wear simple running shoes, and I don’t plan on replacing them until they’ve been used. I have tied a pistol holster to my thigh that holds an M1911. I’ve fashioned a flashlight to the bottom of it, but I don’t have a battery for it right now. I have a knife in each one of my socks. I wouldn’t dare use one of those on a walker, but on a person? Sure, game on. My weapons of choice have to be my baseball bat or my hunting bow (NOT compound boy, simpler than that). The quiver is kept next to my backpack, which mostly holds changes of clothes, and a few essentials. I’d probably be dead if it weren’t for Tony, being real here. Because I just don’t have the space on me to be fast and nimble while also being a walking caravan.

The worst part of the apocalypse so far, is I think I might be pregnant with Brick’s child, and I have no idea how to tell him, or how we’re going to manage this, if we’re even capable of it.

I miss how the world used to be.

-Allison ‘Allie’ Notari

My name is Roark Ronan, 27 years old. My parents had a thing for the ‘R’ sound. Allie and Tony call me Brick. I’m gonna keep this short, because I have things to do and I need to do my part to keep our little rag tag group alive. I’m from Alice Springs, Australia, and I moved to the USA when I was about seven. I’m the group’s leg breaker. I do the work that they don’t want to and most of the heaviest lifting that they cant. Tony tries to keep up, but there’s only so much an old fart like him can do without him pulling something. And we need him, as much as I hate to admit it. Allie could assist, and she does sometimes when she can, but most of the time she’s out doing one thing or another a little ways away from us, in a way she can do better than either of us can.

I’m not huge, about five foot ten or something, but I’m dense as a brick, hence my nickname. Last time I checked, which was a while ago so it’s give or take, I was nearly two hundred pounds despite not looking like I weigh more than 150 something. I dress to look my part. I’m not as fast as Allie, but I’m not as much of a utility as Tony is. I wear cargo pants, and a pair of steel toed work boots. I also tend to wear a white tank top that looks like it’s had the shit beat out of it, and a black leather hooded jacket that I scavenged off the ground. It’s got plenty of pockets around it. Great for storing shit. I stole Anthony’s idea and snagged some Motocross padding that I wear underneath my pants and over my tank top, underneath my jacket. I hate to say it, but the old man knows his shit. On my face I wear a shark jaws bandana and sunglasses, much like Tony and Allie. It works, the bandana keeps shit out, zombie blood and other air crap, and the sunglasses keep the sun out of my eyes. Just about all of my skin is covered, only person who has much of any skin shown is Allie who's lacking a glove. Hell even I have a pair of those on. You can see some of our faces I guess, if that counts. Take off my bandana and you'll see I've got short cropped brown hair, a rather square face and the typical Australian scruff that makes me look like a younger version of Chris Hemsworth according to Tony, who will pick fun at me for it from time to time.

I am a time bomb with an accent when it comes to anger management, and that’s why I don’t do the talking and more of just do what I’m good at. I’m the first to admit that I’m that way. I've always been that way since I got into some MMA about five years ago. I'm not master or anything like that but I've always been able to hold my own in a fight, that just taught me how to properly punch back. Allie and Tony aren’t the kind of people who will kill you, but they are the types who know someone who will get the job done. I am that person to them. Honestly, it’s not like I want to kill people, but I’ve seen so much death that I’m just… desensitized to it by now. I understand that most people have trouble letting go, I was there many times, but death has become an everyday occurrence. I’m more focused on not letting what happened to them happen to Tony, Allie, and I. Despite what everyone may think upon first meeting me, I don’t hate anyone, I just care about the others more. Tony’s pretty much my dad and I owe the man my life and three times over the respect I show him, and Allie’s the only link I have back to how life was before this happened. I love her more than anyone I’ve ever known. I personally bury every living person I kill out of respect. From one survivor to another.

My weapons of choice include a Sawn-off shotgun and my G22 and Beretta M9 pistols. I have one strapped to each of my hips. Along my thigh I have the sheath to a Schrade Kukri machete, which houses one of my more deadly weapons. My final weapon, and the one I use more than any other and my weapon of choice, is my Annihilator crowbar, which I found in a home depot. I can be seen carrying it more often than not, and if I’m not it’s tied to the right side of my backpack balancing out my shotgun (which is tied to the other side) for easy retrieval for use.

Finally, my most distinct feature is that my dog, Diesel, just about always accompanies me wherever I go. Diesel is a six-year-old male Rottweiler, probably weighs a little north of 140lbs. My mum used to train dogs for various different purposes, and while I wasn’t always the best at helping her, I was able to improvise and teach Diesel to be a guard dog. He will attack and defend on command and knows where to bite to kill well enough. Rottweiler’s were pretty renowned for their bite before everything went to shit, I’m glad I wont get in trouble for it now. He’s sweet as can be when he’s not on alert, and acts, as a wonderful early warning system for us, cause he can smell and hear things we can’t. Allie takes him hunting sometimes. If he catches them early enough he can bring down or distract deer for her. Tony spoils him rotten; I think Diesel, Allie, and I are the only things keeping him going now.

-Roark 'Brick' Ronan

*static breaks*
Ok, That should be it. The board says I'm broadcasting, so I guess you can hear me. I'm Kyle Hart, and if you have any idea what I'm saying, congratulations. You are one of the handful of individuals that weren't turned into zombies. For calibration purposes, I am broadcasting on 670 AM at the WHOM building in Memphis, Tennesee. According to my GPS it is now 12:02 PM, so good afternoon to all of you.
In case you were wondering, I'm a factory technician from a little city outside of Atlanta, and I found this place a few days ago and got it working. My companions, Franky and Robert, found a diesel tanker to fuel the generator in the basement and a load of solar panels, so I'm going to try and rig this place so that it can continue to broadcast. I'll be trading off with those to run the control room, so feel free to call in if you happen to be in the Memphis area and have a HAM radio that can broadcast at 100khz AM. We'll be happy to talk with you, or even meet up. Of course, for all of you bad guys out there that think you're making the world a better place or that just want to take our stuff, listen up. I'm sure he'll tell you more when he gets on here, but Franky's ex-special forces and one of the biggest bad-asses you'll ever com across. So if you want to hurt us, just keep moving and I'll make sure he doesn't put a 50 cal round through your head.
So, what can I talk about? Since this is the first time you've ever heard of me, I guess I ought to tell you a bit about myself. Like I said, I used to fix stuff in factories. They decided to fire me for some reason a few days before the meteors fell, and, after signing up for unemployment, locked myself in my house, only leaving to go shopping. I guess I felt like I deserved a break. Anyway, after a few days people started turning so I stayed inside with my pistol always by my side. When I started to run out of food and stuff, I took my neighbor's van, he was a plumber so I had plenty of room, and loaded everything I wanted to take with me in it, and headed out, hoping to find some remote area in the north or Texas where there weren't any zombies. Every time I stopped, though, the sound of the engine drew in the undead, so I couldn't stop more than the few minutes it took to loot a little or siphon a gas tank.
After almost two days of that, in which I didn't get a bit of sleep, I met Franky and Robert. We teamed up and decided to head for the Appalachians. We got kind of sidetracked, though, and only arrived in Memphis a few days ago. I figured we could use a break, so I set us up a camp here.
I'll talk about myself more later, but for now, let me tell you how we're going to run the place. I'll be on from noon to dusk, and midnight to dawn. Franky's the night shift guy, so he'll run it any time I'm not on the air at night, and Robert will run the day shift. And please, if you can find a ham radio, call in. We'd love to hear from anyone else that survived.
Now, let's see what music this place has...Hmmm. Well I'll find something better, but for right now, I guess I'll play some Beethoven. Enjoy.
*music begins*

*Mozart concert stops and sounds like it's getting scratched*
Seriously? That's what Kyle's playing for you? I'll definitely have to do better than that. We're trying to attract people, not drive them away.
Ok, I guess I'd better say that I'm Franky Hansen and, despite the similarities with that British guy's name, who'll show up in 12 hours or so, I am not related to him. Let's see, it's 6:48 pm and I've got control of the station until midnight, so I'm gonna tell you all about me and hopefully you'll be interested, especially any ladies out there. And if there are any ladies out there, I'd just like to say that you should come by the station and let me buy you a drink. I've got a couple of kegs in the next room, Kyle's got some Brandy or Scotch or Jack or something, and Robert's got a few bottles of wine stashed away in case that's your thing. And believe me when I say that if something happens between us, even if that's why you came here in the first place, I will make it worth your while.
Huh? Yes I CAN proposition women over the radio. The government ain't around to stop me anymore and none of you really want to stop me, since you'd be doing it too if you weren't so stuck up.
Sorry, that was Robert. He seems to think the old US laws about prostitution still apply in a zombie wasteland. That's just because he's so stuck up. I tell you, HE'S the one that needs to get laid, then maybe he'd get that stick out of his ass.
So, ladies, let me tell you about myself. You could ay I'm a bona-fide hero. I was in Afghanistan during the war and got captured. One day, however, I had had enough and I decided to escape. I kicked several of their asses and even saved that British guy you heard me talking to. He was a non-com of some sort for the RAF, but I'll let his tell you about that. After we escaped and show another squadron where they were, the army debriefed us and we both got an honorable discharge for PTSD and Amnesia or some such. We were put in a VA Psych ward in Texas, and when the zombies happened they let me out. I did the same thing to them that I did to those terrorists, and, wouldn't you know it, me the British guy were the only ones to survive the assault. So we started heading East, hoping to get to the mountains where the Zombies would be rare, when we ran into Kyle, driving a flipping plumbers van of all things. We teamed up and kept going East, and ended up here. So, ladies, if you feel like taking a break from the horrors of the world and climbing into the arms of a true American hero, come on by.
And sense I'm sure there are bad guys out there listening as well, I've got a 50 cal sniper rifle, two 1911s, a machete, and two kabars on me at any time, so don't even think about starting anything. You'll be dead before your gun left its holster. And if you try to bring in something heavier, like an MRAP or a tank, I've got an RPG I've been itching to try out, so just try and take a run at us.
Now, that's enough honest intimidation for now. I happened to find the Ipod of one of the employees, and they've got some pretty decent songs on here, so it's time for some Ozzie.


*Rock music ends*
Hello, everyone. I'm Robert Hansen, and it is now 7:01 AM local time. Now, I'm sure that that soldier Franky told you some truly horrid and slanderous things about me after he finish propositioning every women within a hundred miles. I'm going to guess he said I was a ponsy bastard who could use a good shagging, am I right? Well, that's just the way he is, crude and bruttish. I only put up with his company because he rescued me from captivity, and I feel I owe it to him to teach at least some modicum of social grace.
I suppose I should invite you here, and, truthfully, we could use a visitor. I've had to put up with those two for so long it's amazing I haven't gone, how do you Americans say it, "bonkers". Now, don't get me wrong, Kyle isn't too bad. He at least knows the value of a good scotch or wine and appreciates some of the finer things in life, like classical music and chess. But there's only so many times you can talk with the same two people before there's nothing left to say.
So if you're out there, either call us at 100 khz AM on the radio or stop by the WHOM building in Memphis. We'd be happy to show you a bit of the hospitality that's sorely lacking in this day and age.
And now just to teach Franky a lesson about playing music all of us like, I'm staging a second Brittish invasion. It's time for the Beattles, with "Yellow Submarine".

21 September 2020

As the ferocity of winter's bite grows, I find myself thinking of before. In the blink of an eye I'm walking in the California sun as a child. Parents ahead of me, my older brother walking by my side. Those memories are fragments. I remember later on a bit better. The day we moved to the Pacific Northwest, just in time for the freak ice storm. Maybe I had seen snow, but never so much, and never like that. Despite my brother and I being teens we played like snot-nosed kids. Throwing snowballs, 'building' snow huts, just acting making total fools out of ourselves without a care. We didn't give a shit. Most of our lives were spent in a place where a number of houses had to have water trucked to them. Give us a couple feet of ice and snow -- how could we not freak out? That was before everything changed. Before the first frost meant a new struggle. Nevertheless, even with this new reality and the challenges it brings, I still smile at the thought of winter. I still smile at the thought of snow. And I hope to have the chance to be that snivelling California kid with his older brother.

13 December 2020

According to my count it's been about three months. This trip has been long, and It might be foolish, but I've already made it to Centralia. The roads clear once you're out of the major cities and suburbs and the junk left behind is amazing. From the looks of it there are definitely bandits, but nothing like the rumours I've heard elsewhere. Supposedly the gang of note here is called 'Legion'. It's funny, because my brother was always artsy and he'd study the old Greek-or-Roman works. He'd probably flip to see his cultural wet-dream reduced to bunch of brutes with guns. Well, what with the stories, I hope he'd just run. These guys seem seriously tweaked like the sort who'd shoot first then check for zed later. I'm sure he's fine. I mean, I don't even know if he's alive still, but if he is, I'm sure he'd know better.

2 January 2021

I didn't expect to find him here, honestly. A part of me hoped and dreamt that despite all the horrors and chaos he'd somehow be here waiting. The more childish part of me thought I might even surprise him. Deep down, I never expected to make it this far. After things went to shit and I decided to get moving, the thought of finding him was really just an excuse. Staying where was before was like lying in my coffin. The search for my brother was just my denial at work, my mind coping with the fact that there really was no reason for me to exist any more. I knew how much he spoke about Olympia and after passing by his old, burnt out flat, I figured why not. At worst, I died on the trip up. At best... well, I had my hopes.

Finding Evergreen State was surreal. I made this drive dozens of times back when he was a student and this was still a college. Back then Evergreen State meant free love, hard studies, weed, and creative freedom. He started school at the same time I enlisted too. When I went to visit I just remember the conversations with the 'Greeners'. I had only just completed boot camp and was already growing more rigid, perhaps more conservative. Speaking to them about politics, religion, and philosophy undid what weeks of tireless training had worked to establish. I never felt so alive and doubtful. The systems that I had only just learned to trust with my life seemed nothing more than illusions to convince me to throw my life away. I just remember thinking, both laughing and crying, that I wish the Recruiter's Office had been here. I wished I'd heard what a person could make for themselves with education and support rather than discipline and apathy. The Evergreen of today is far different. I only just arrived, and I expected some fortification if anyone had survived, but the guards here are well armed. When the gates opened I'd expected a rag-tag group just doing their best. Instead, I was met with a trained military force. How much has really changed?

4 January 2021

Shortly after arriving to Evergreen I was taken into a dark room. Although they grabbed me as I finished my last entry, they left me with both my journal and pen. The only things they took were the most obvious weapons. That said, despite the poor lighting, I could clearly see myself in the mirror. Multiple means to create a weapon or, I guess, kill myself. Maybe that's the point.

Seeing myself in the mirror was more startling than isolation. I normally wear my hair short and have no patience for scraggly facial hair. Haven't had much choice lately, hell, I really haven't cared either. My face is now a dark tan and both long as well as gaunt. The bottom half is consumed by an untamed beard that curves toward the center at a point a few inches below my chin. Atop of my head is a mess of long hair that I've clearly let tangle -- not dread, mind you, this is far worse. The hair stretches down to my chest. Somehow all of this is a surprise. Somehow I never realized just how long it'd been since I saw myself. Or maybe I had. Maybe I'd walked by mirrors countless times and just not cared until now. Until I found others. How long has it even been?

10 January 2021

I have been given the choice to stay or go. Something seems off about the soldiers here and the community, well, they don't express much anything. I've cleaned up a little, but kept all the hair. I consider it my way of not settling. They gave me the choice to stay or go, but it doesn't matter. I saw my brother's name on a document. He's alive. They have a sketch of him on a wanted poster.

There really is no choice. I didn't expect it to be this way, but if this is how I find you, so be it. See you soon, Simon.

21 February 2021

Training with the 1007th has been brutal. My time in the Marines prepared me for physical side, not to mention walking some hundreds of miles just to get here. What really has me sweating is the intensity of these people. Can you even call them people? Most of them would sooner mow down a few travellers rather than hitch them a ride. They have what little fuel is left, great weapons, and even body armour, but it's like they're afraid of every little thing. Why? I know my strength and had to make my own weapons while out in the wilds. With their armaments I'm not the least bit concerned. What stops them from thinking like me and seeing this as the potential to help? Maybe that's conceded.

23 February 2021

I was told that I didn't know my own limits yesterday. They told me my strength and ingenuity was wasted on someone who didn't know the end of their abilities. Since when do these guys get off going philosophical on me? Most of them are murderers, dammit. But fine, I'll accept that. I've been told before I'm bullheaded and been hurt because of it, probably will again. It's like I see a challenge and can't back away, and that might sound pathetic, but it's pretty damn serious when that challenge can easily break you. Otherwise, I feel pretty well established in this world. I can take more punches than most, and often do, but I usually figure it out on my own.

I will admit, this journal has really helped. Looking back at my entries, I hadn't spoken to a single living person for at least six months before arriving here in January. If I hadn't been writing I'd probably have been some dribbling fool. Can't say I'm some Casanova nowadays, I'm nowhere near as charismatic as my brother, but at least I can hold a conversation.

...

- Tomás Gellemo Lombardi

8/3/2019

It's my birthday today. I'm surprised I know that, given the state the world is in.

If you've found this tape, my name is Leopold Walsh, but you can call me Leo for short. I'm a... "collector", of sorts. I scour the land, searching for relics of a lost age; keepsakes of a bygone era. Pocketwatches, magazines, DVD cases, comic books, guns... even calendars. Probably how I know that today's my birthday. It's weird, right? Almost five years have passed and we're already in a different time. Everything's pretty much gone, and it's the remains of us that are left -- or maybe it's just me. Maybe, I'm the only one left.

Sorry. I tend to go off on a tangent, sometimes. Bit of an imagination, you could say, but not too far off from the reality we face. My items, right. That's where I was going with this whole thing. I've faced my fair share of conflict; did battle with bandits and the like who wanted my stuff, but I fought and I fought well. By now, my body's got to be covered with scars. I don't know. I rarely check now.

38 years old. I'm 38 years old, and the years have not been kind. I don't even look the same as I used to. To be honest with you, I never thought I'd last this long. I'm not really talking about now; just before it all went down. I wasn't happy with who I was, where I was. Working dead-end jobs to make things meet, only to go home and sleep in a bed with someone who never really loved me. She's dead, now. A fitting end to her lie? I don't think it was. I never wished death on her. Just wished she was honest. I wasted time that could have been better spent doing...

Ugh. Sorry. Tangent again, hah. Keep it together, Leo.

When all of this is over... IF all of this ends, I plan to open my own museum. It'll be small, yeah, but full of nostalgia. I want people to remember that we had a life before this. Even if they do remember, they still need to be reminded of the progress we made. We've done so much for ourselves. It's not outside the realm of possibility for us to do it again.

I can hear them again. The loud screams, the growling. Those monsters. They're getting clos--

---

10/26/2019

I found a picture of a family today. Man, woman, two kids. They looked so happy. I wonder what happened to them.

My family was nothing like theirs. My mother and father constantly fought. If it wasn't the bills, it was the infidelity. If not that, then it was me. I don't know where along the road when I started becoming a problem to them, but I was old enough to realize that when they talked about me, it hurt. Okay, so maybe, I wasn't that great of a kid. I had my share of problems. Couldn't focus on things the way others could. I was lost in my imagination. In truth, it was a better place to be. From time to time, it still is; just less so, as being caught off guard now can get you killed.

The divorce was especially hard to take. Pops' infidelity caught up with him, and Mom wasn't having it. It was tumultuous. Possessions halved, custody battles, seeing Dad with that girl. I couldn't understand it at first; was kinda hazy and really fast. Next thing I knew, I was with another relative. Didn't see Mom or Dad for a while. I learned later that she killed herself and he... just disappeared for good. Aunt Hazel was kind to me; the closest representation to a parent that I could actually find, but she's gone now. Rest easy, auntie.

By the time she died, I moved out, ready to pace the world on my own. At least, I thought so. Didn't have money, and the job I worked paid very little. Toss that on top of college debt, and it's a recipe for homelessness. By chance, I had grown fond of another student. Jenna Carter, straight-laced good girl. Our relationship was good for a while. We were in love, but it started to dwindle as the years went by. We got married, but I was still in debt, so we never had that much money. I kept piling on jobs in hopes of clearing the debt. I laugh about it now. All I had to do was wait. The apocalypse would take care of it for me.

Jenna? She and I divorced. She didn't take anything. "Nothing of value," she said. That hurt a lot more than I thought it would. She didn't value anything about our relationship. Or maybe she did, but just lost heart. The last I heard, she was killed somewhere near Ventura, California. Long time ago, towards the start of the outbreak, it seems. I survived, but barely.

And now, I'm holding onto this picture. I could put it in the museum. A remembrance of happiness. Yeah, that sounds pretty good.

---

1/30/2020

Gone. All of it, gone.

I don't know how it happened. It was a blur. I saw this girl on the side of the road, bawling her eyes out. I walked up to her, wanted to see what was wrong, and got ambushed. They started rummaging through my things. MY things. That was all mine. I worked hard for everything I collected. I stared down the barrel of a gun into the toothless face of a bandit as they picked and threw everything everywhere. When they were done, they were going to kill me. If it wasn't for the horde of infected that showed up, I might have been another bloodstain on the road. I picked myself up and I ran amidst the chaos. The bandits were too busy with the horde to deal with me. By the time it was over, I was a ghost.

But... everything is gone. I've got a calendar, a revolver, and this recorder. Everything else is left to the wind.

I shouldn't have helped. I should have shot her. Never again. I'll never let myself trust like that again.

Time to start over.