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

After the end of the world, I became a drifter and a murderer of both the living and the dead. I wanted to believe I was doing some right in this world, but I really didn’t know what I was doing. I was hoping I could fight my way through enough wars until I realized I had been justified all along. Of what, I didn’t know. I still don’t know. Neglecting those who needed me, manipulating those I could, taking what benefited me… I wanted to look back and understand it was all okay. It was for the greater good. Just anything to make me feel dignified in being the monster I let myself dissolve into. Anything so I didn’t have to accept I was wrong, and weak, and steadily worthless. Anything so I didn’t have to apologize to those who leaned too much on me.

My name is Angela Moore. I am thirty-eight. I was a mother. I was a wife. I studied to become a teacher and ended up as an executive assistant when I wasn’t a stay-at-home mom. Deep down, I always wanted to be an author. To write mystery/romance novels… I never told anyone that dream. It wouldn’t matter now, regardless.

I had two children, a boy named Wayne and a girl named Cynthia. Cynthia was seven and Wayne was ten. They were my everything. I loved my babies so, so much. Cynthia was always my little princess with a sharp tongue. She loved all things frilly and pink – and dolphins. Cynthia loved dolphins, said she wanted to be one when she grew-up. Cynthia was what I always wanted in a daughter: so profoundly intelligent, loved Disney movies, singing and dancing, tea parties with crumpets (soda and Oreos), and the whole nine yards. My little girl… God, she was beautiful. So damn perfect, that blonde hair and big eyes, that tiny little nose. Small little fingernails that always had colorful nail polish on. She got into my makeup one time, made an absolute mess of it. When I sat her down in the washroom to clean it off, she told me she just wanted to be beautiful like me. I told her she was more beautiful than anything in this world, and she said to me, “You got that right.” Only seven-years-old and such wit. That was Cynthia.

I used to jokingly say Wayne wasn’t my son. Here I was all about looking proper and sophisticated, and don’t I have the absolute opposite. Wayne was large, and he was a smelly baby – when he took naps, he would sweat like crazy. He always had some sort of odd scent to him. He was kind of large and had creases in his neck and armpits where dirt collected. And he would eat like you could not believe. We used to laugh so much about how much of a gross baby he was. Only a mother could appreciate how adorable that is. Everyone else must have thought I was crazy.

Wayne was quiet, but once he became interested in something, he could talk up a storm. He loved Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and animals. He used to plants flowers with me and decide which bugs would live where. Sometimes he would say something that just was not proper English, but it made sense to him and that was all that mattered. He was so gentle and shy, and he didn’t have a lot of friends but he was fine with that. Wayne didn’t need a big group of friends. He was happy on his own. He did have one friend – Benny, and Wayne and Benny were inseparable. They were going to open an animal rescue shelter together, but only for exotic animals. Cats and dogs weren’t allowed, because Wayne said so.

Some nights, when the kids were playing, I would just listen to them, do nothing but just listen and wonder how they came up with half the things they said. I was so damn proud of them. They were everything and more to me. I loved them so, so much.

Garrett and I had been together for eleven years. We met at a New Year’s Eve party. It was one part tipsiness and one part desperation that brought us together. He had this… this dorky charm that made me laugh. He was just so stupid and hilarious, and it was adorable. But our love was gone long before we willingly let it dim to just that occasional flicker of heat. We stayed together for our children. Sometimes I loathed him… but sometimes I would just look at those flecks of stubble on his jawline, the way the corners of his eyes produced crow’s feet each time he grinned, and that stupid button nose that contrasted the rest of his wide, boxy face, and… I remembered why I fell for him. I would all over again if I could.

I lost all of them in the beginning. When we first heard the stories, we stocked up on everything we could. I wanted to leave the city, but Garrett insisted we stay put. He said the highways would be packed. I wasn’t as smart back then. Back then I didn’t overanalyze every little detail of every plan I make like I do now. I didn’t setup back-up plans for the plan B I knew would fail; I didn’t strategize. I wasn’t overly-paranoid and cautious back then. Not like I am now.

We hid in the basement. The kids were afraid and crying – and I didn’t let them see, but I cried, too. We all sat with our backs against the wall, Wayne in my lap and Cynthia wedged between Garrett and I. We all held hands as we prayed, and I told the kids that everything would be fine. Garrett and I told them the stories about Y2K and 2012. We planned what we would make for breakfast. Wayne wanted waffle-PB&J-sandwiches, and Cynthia wanted an omelette made with jalapeno peppers. I told them we’d have both. I said anything to keep things calm.
At one point I looked over at Garrett. He was looking back at me, and it was the first time in a long time that we smiled at each other and truly meant it, and I wanted to apologize to him for everything. For all the fights we ever had and all the times I never gave it my all. But I didn’t need to say anything, and neither did he. That smile, that look… that was enough.

That night was when it happened, when two of the Infected broke in to the basement. Garrett and I fought them off, but he was bitten on the arm during it. We didn’t know at the time what happens when you’re bitten. All I knew was that he was bleeding and needed help. When morning came, I left him with the kids to find help.

I was scared leaving on my own, and I didn’t even find help. I found absolute chaos and gore mixed with hostility. The neighbors didn’t open their doors for me, and I don’t blame them. Our quiet street was bloodied and broken. I spent a good part of the afternoon going from door-to-door, periodically checking in on Garrett when I could.

The sun started to set, and so I went back home. I thought maybe I could apply a tourniquet and I didn’t know what to do from there, but I was scared shitless and worried. I couldn’t think straight – only panic.

When I got back… Garrett had turned sometime between my last drop-in and when I returned. His situation was decaying steadily, but I didn’t expect that. God, I didn’t expect that… I didn’t expect I would lose them like that.

Garrett attacked me. I fended him off. I saw what became of our children. I didn’t stop crying about that for months. You don’t forget something like that, ever. I still haven’t forgotten the last time I saw the faces of my babies.

Losing your children isn’t something you can get over. It’s not something that passes in time. It’s a permanent depression you learn to live with. When your entire world is stolen from you, you don’t know how to live normally anymore. You don’t know how to laugh without remember theirs. You don’t know how to look at a healthy child and not feel envy. You don’t know how to sleep without dreaming of them. You don’t know how to sit alone in a room by yourself and not think of them – who they were, who they could have been, and why. Just, why. It’s a never-ending hollowness you’re constantly reminded of. Maybe if I had therapy and loved ones to help me get through this, I could’ve turned out okay. But, no. You can’t feel love naturally after something like that. You just can’t. I can’t.

I was there for an entire month. I had barricaded the doors and lived off what little supplies we still had. I sat by the basement door, crying and pleading for Garrett to stop. I contemplated suicide so many times, but never could bring myself to. I still had hope they would be okay on the other side and I could be there for them when they got better. I couldn’t stand to live without them, but never would I want them to live without their mother. I told myself they would need me.

I began making trips to the other houses and taking what I could. The neighborhood was emptied. Two months in, and the undead started coming by. At first it was only a few, but soon there were swarms that shuffled down the street. I had to hide for days until I could slip out and scavenge. I had killed my first Infected two months in and by then I knew I couldn’t stay. I guess I changed by then. In those few weeks I had seen enough horror, felt enough loss, grieved a little too much and for a little too long. I gave up and just started wandering northward. It was tough, leaving them behind, but I hadn’t heard a sound from the basement in days and I knew it was time to go. I considered going to Garrett’s parents’; they were the only family I had nearby, but I couldn’t face them without their son and grandchildren. I didn’t want to witness losing more family, either. It was easier remaining oblivious.

Eventually a convoy picked me up, brought me to Bismarck Haven. It was small when I got there. I helped fortify its defenses and patrol its walls. It was there that I learned to use a gun and became hardened. I vented through violence, finding meditative peace in those explosive gunshots. I grew a lot there. I didn’t want to be a leader, but being imposing and strong and bigger than I needed to be made me feel in control. I was so angry with the world, and I lashed out at it. Somehow, that put me in a place of respect. I guess by yelling loud enough, people thought I knew what I was doing.

I formed a close group of friends there: Amanda Keane, Roxanne Johnson, Darius Jayson, Aurora Davies, Charlotte McLeod, Doug Bishop, Winifred Ross, Bob Hope and Valerie Haywood. I remember them all. Together we headed down to Kansas where Roxanne had an isolated home. It was about two and a half years when we left Bismarck. It wasn’t any safer, but we wanted to start our own life, away from the depression of a Haven. Along the way we picked up more people, and others found us there. I never expressed it enough – I was always too stern and wound-up, but I loved it there. It was quiet, slow, soft. I liked waking up to hear the birds and the Greenfield sisters playing with Brandon Flint’s kids. I kept up that tough exterior, even during the times when I felt at ease.

After another two years of living at what we called The Farm, a group of us left for the day to go on a scavenging run. We were just a mile out when we saw the smoke coming from The Farm and, when we got back, it was all up in flames. We lost mostly everyone. We were once a group of twenty-one. Only nine of us remained.

We couldn’t salvage our home, so we left. Before making it to Fort Riley, we picked up a girl named Abigail and a man named Trake. At Fort Riley, we met another group. I never got to know any of them. I left shortly after. The amount of guilt and self-hatred I felt – I felt completely responsible for what happened to the others. At that time I believed I could have saved them if I stayed behind, and I despised myself for not doing just that.

I’m not proud of what I did, and looking back I don’t know why it made sense, but I left the rest of them at Fort Riley. I drove far away. I wanted to be alone, feeling like they didn’t want me and I didn’t deserve them. I became depressed, destructive, suicidal… I kept fighting, but I wanted so badly for something to take me down, just one small thing to end me. It almost happened, and I remember lying on this black and white linoleum flooring in a puddle of fresh rainwater, my skin trickling because I knew someone was standing over me after being hit over the head. I thought I was dead. I was perfectly okay with it.

But I woke up. On the metal floor of a remodeled school bus, I breathed and I was alive. I think I cried, and someone told me to stop. Her name was Sheena Hudson, and I punched her so hard in the jaw, she couldn’t eat properly for a few days after. She calls me her “best bitch,” and I’m beginning to understand that means we’re friends.

And that was a few months ago. I’ve been travelling with Sheena, Gene and Eileen since. They’re a good group. They’ve changed how I see things. I’m okay with them. I don’t know if I’ll stay with them, but I owe them for rescuing me. I agreed to help them, finding a bit of personal redemption in finally doing good. Maybe this will be how I repair myself. I can’t tell yet.
- Angela Moore

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.

Once upon a time, in a land that was super shitty and infested by zombies, there lived a woman who was really awesome and the coolest thing since shortwave pocket radio transceivers. Her name was Cassandra Shannahan. She’s me. I’m Cassie. And I’m only writing all this shit about me down so that when I turn into a Zed-head someone can pin it to my shirt. Then when I inevitably get my rotting, human flesh craving brains bashed in by a Louisville Slugger wrapped in barbed wire, the lucky bastard who did it will know how fucking cool I was. So, Lucky Bastard, pay attention.

About me? Well, I’m a tall and lanky brunette. Greenish eyes. Long face. Evil smirk. Damn hot. Armed to the teeth with an M4 with an under barrel mounted grenade launcher…with no grenades; I’ll find some that don’t shoot chalk one day. Got a hatchet on my left leg, a sweet piece in the shape of a Glock 23 on my right. Then there’s my skydiving rig. 96sqft of red, black, and grey fabric that sits on my back in a red and black container. This rig has saved my life in more ways than one; It’s like the Swiss Army knife of the apocalypse.

Guess you need to know who I was before knowing who I am so… Before the end of the world, my life was still pretty epic. My parents were both professional skydivers up in Michigan, so I grew up in a community of adrenaline loving, thrill seeking, crazy people. Needless to say, I was a pretty badass little kid. When I graduated from high school I moved out to Hollywood to become a stuntwoman since, you know, I’d been participating in life threatening activities since I was knee high. Nobody outside the movie making business would probably recognize my name, but I can guarantee that you’ve seen me before, you just didn’t know it was me. I was great at what I did and I fucking loved it. It… didn’t like me so much. Think I’ve broken like every bone in my body at least once. Shit, some days I can barely move my bad shoulder anymore. But yeah, one day, after a motorcycle stunt that went horribly wrong, I spent a few months in a hospital bed and had a little “come to Jesus” moment. Figured my body wouldn’t hold up forever, so I needed a backup plan. That was a degree in Communication Technology. Basically, if it sends or receives signals, I can fix it or make it. I’m a genius like that. A year after I graduated, the world turned to shit.

Seriously, dude, zombies. But you know that if you’re reading this. I got the hell out of Hollywood and drove off into the desert as soon as things got sketchy. Eventually I found my way to Reno Haven. Fucking sucked there, though it’s not the worst haven I’ve been to. Started actually using my degree in comm tech, making people radios and solar panels for electricity. But, ahh, I have a problem with authority… and sitting still. So I started drifting and salvaging parts to make into comm stuff and sell. I traveled all around the country, found a bunch of other havens, and had more than a few close calls… Like, close is number one on my speed dial.

For some reason, I never went looking for my family until some fucked up shit happened and I ended up pregnant, scared, and totally alone. That was a bad time in my life; the worst, really. Not super big on telling people about it... But I traveled up to Michigan to find someone from my old life I could anchor to and ended up finding more than a few. My mom, and some friends so close to family that the only thing different was our blood and last names. I lived with them on the island haven of Mackinac until my daughter, Brianna, was weaned. Then I left again, alone. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I like to make the excuse that I leave my family to provide for them and to find them somewhere better to live, and that’s some of it, just not most of it. I don’t know what is.

But after one of my handful of visits to their haven, I decided that they’d be better off in Evergreen and I wanted to make it as comfortable as possible for them when they got there. So I made a deal with their council: I’d build them a device to make their haven safer, if my family was allowed to move there and be provided food and security. That’s when I met Petey; he was made my babysitter while I was there. I guess nothing’s really changed over the years as far as that goes. We survived and fought through the Siege of Evergreen and then escaped into the night with some others. I suppose those first couple of days were really when the Pirate Crew came to be. Yeah... Me, Petey, Isaac, Gunner (that asshole), Daryl, and Acacia; we were the first. And together we traveled out to Riley, Kansas where we met the Farmers for the first time. After that, well, everyone seems to know the rest of the story.

Oh yeah, I’m attaching a picture of myself to this letter too. You know, since when you read this I’ll probably be all gross and decomposed. I grabbed it off the picture wall of my home DZ’s manifest building last time I made a run up into Michigan to visit the family. It’s not in the greatest shape, but the thing’s been stuffed into the bottom of my backpack for like, seven months. Deal with it.

-Cassie Shannahan, Winter ‘22

My story isn’t exactly one I’m proud of but I don’t see the point of trying to water it down, so here it is. My name’s Coltrane - Trane to friends. Some people describe me as a pretty imposing guy, strong like - I figure it’s just how I’m naturally built. Not that I want to be scary, but it helps when you have to knock heads together. Guess it makes up for not being much of an expert with knives or computers, I guess. If you ever need to recognise me, I’m usually wearing a set of cargo pants with a white vest, and I like to wear a leather cargo jacket most of the time. Never could tolerate anything more, I’m not a fan of burdening clothes – which is also probably why I keep my hair trimmed down. Don’t mind having a short beard, though. Usually I’m carrying my trusty fire axe too, as well as a reliable Glock 17 strapped under my waistband.

I grew up in South Central L.A in the late eighties in a neighbourhood which wasn’t what I’d call the best place to live around. Gangs, drugs - not the best of places to be, but I guess things could’ve been worse. I could’ve been dead, for instance, but no - I’m not gonna spin some bullshit about coming from a shitty family. I had a baby brother who was pretty smart for his age, destined for some good education at college or something like that. Moms was always soft spoken and kind. And my old man? Honest as they came - he worked at an Autoshop a couple blocks away and always had a love for cars, so I figure that’s where I got it from.
Hell, I remember he used to be proud of a ‘64 Chevy Impala which he’d been restoring over the years. Used to enjoy working on it with him, too, like when we had our little arguments about stuff and he’d take the both of us into the garage, throw some Marley tunes on the radio and start wiping down that car whilst we talked things out. See, he was always kind and understanding like that, never blaming me for anything, always encouraging me to find an honest living and to steer away from all the bullshit you’d find in a place like South Central.
At any rate, it was my own damned fault and nobody else’s that I ended up where I did. First, it was something you’d hardly notice - running errands for friends of friends, occasionally passing the ‘laundry’ to a corner captain in exchange for a small wad of cash. Was just a kid back then, but I should’ve known better. Even my old man started to take notice but instead of yelling at me - or even beating me as some might’ve - he tried to talk me out of the path I was going on and steer me the other way. But, as I said. I was a kid back then, and enough of a fool to ignore him, and now it still haunts me.
I got deeper and deeper into things. Saw some bad shit, did some bad shit until one day I ended up gunning down two kids in the same shit as me in retribution for the killing of a close friend. Got paranoid after that, jumpy, and ultimately it led to me winding up in prison. Then a couple weeks later I learned that my old man had been murdered, killed in a drive-by on my house as revenge against me.

After that, well.. I didn’t really talk to a lot of people on the outside. Moms was too upset to even see me. She’d lost a son and a husband at the same time. And my baby brother loathed me for it. For what I’d put the family through, and for costing our old man his life. I don’t blame him for it, he had every right - and I knew it even then. Sometimes I still wonder what happened to the both of them, you know. Moms... well, I know L.A got it pretty bad. I just hope she didn’t suffer long. And my brother? He ended up on a flight to the East Coast, wanting to get away from the ghetto and all that bullshit with it. Last I heard was that he became a Detective. Good for him, I guess. Even with what happened between us, I hope he’s alright – that he made it and that he’s still out there somewhere. Markus – if you ever find this, I’m so sorry. You deserved better.
I can’t remember how long I spent inside prison, other than that I wasted my best years - at least a decade inside, either way. Realised all that gangbanger ‘glory’ was bullshit and gave it up. You know the rest; guess the apocalypse was my lucky break. I managed to keep my head down during the riots and lived long enough to see the ‘new management’ take over. Those bastards everyone know as the ‘Condemned’. These people were dangerous, I knew their kind - killers, thieves, the types who hurt others because they could, and one day I just snapped. Turned on them after seeing something which got to me and couldn’t stand for; never did like seeing women or kids getting hurt. I never went back to the prison, not that I could, and headed out on my own.

I drifted around Southern Cali for a few years, never stopping in one place for too long. Back then the idea of a ‘safezone’ was out of the question for me, you either kept on the move or you got swept over by the next wave of dead or bandits. Occasionally I’d run across a couple of survivors who were decent enough to not bash my skull in over a can of beans, but any groups we had never lasted long and we went on our separate ways after a few months, one way or the other. It wasn’t until a couple years later, maybe, I learned something of interest - another one of those so-called ‘safezones’ up in Northern Cali, based in Chico. I was skeptical, but the least to say they said they’d seen it themselves, even had a detailed map of it all. The way I saw it, it wasn’t as if I was doing much else other than surviving. Southern Cali was running dry and I had my reservations about heading east.

So, ‘fuck it’ was what I thought. Following the highway, I ended up out on my ass towards the end of the journey and got lost, but that’s when I met those people. Daryl, Abbie and the others too. See, they were headed towards Chico as well, only difference was that they actually knew the road. So yeah, I took a gamble and ended up I followed them into Chico. And what a place it was.

Maybe for other people, people who’d been raised in these safezones for a large part of their lives - it might not have been anything special, but for me it was... shit, I couldn’t have described it at the time. For the first time in... fuck knew how long, I saw people doing their business, going about their lives, not worrying about what was on the other side of those walls. Closest thing I knew to paradise. I settled in after a while, took some getting used to when it came to being part of society again I’ll admit, but these people helped me through. I talked to Abbie a little bit, got to know her - a good person, she’d been through some shit herself, like pretty much everyone. Lost her family, and she seemed to blame herself for it - I sympathised with her for that, so yeah, I guess you could say I could’ve considered her a friend at the time. So yeah, I decided to stick around with these people.

Hell, there’s a lot more I have to say here, y’know? But that was just the start of things, and there was plenty more to come.

-Coltrane Anders, 202X

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 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.