So, it was like totally Aweena and her entire country's fault. After the US lost out on not one, but two gold medals in hockey to Canada I just... I went down into my basement wearing nothing but hockey pads, curled up around my hockey stick in the fetal position on the floor, and sang songs about America through my racking sobs. This went on for I don't know how long. Totally lost track of all time. And then after I pulled my blubbering puddle of a self together again I had to wash the taste of shame and despair from my mouth which coincidentally tastes a lot like chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream and tequila... Or my friend needed help moving. One of those.

Why this can't wait for some other time, I have no idea, but I suppose I'll humor you. I've got a hundred other things I need to be doing, not the least of which involves cleaning the guts off of my truck's front manifold. Of course, I said that to you last week, and the week before, and the week before...

My name's Daryl Romanson, and I'm best known as a scavenger. Scout for the Chico haven on occasion. That means I spend most of my time out of havens, wandering around, looking for... stuff. Cars, gas, old-world food, batteries, guns, ammunition, stuff you can't just grow behind a haven wall. People know me because I rescue people. Not usually intentionally, but I come across people, sometimes. Survivors from old, destroyed camps, sometimes the odd slave or down-on-their-luck bandit. And I bring them all to Chico, or Reno. It doesn't happen very often, but it's often enough that you've got me writing this down, I guess.

I like being out of havens. Don't get me wrong, a safe place to lay down is great and all, but people there spend too much time trying to make things the way they were. Wake up, brush teeth, go to school, go to work, come home, drink, go to bed. I can't get into it. My life was boring enough before the meteors hit, I have no interest in trying to replicate that. So instead, I go outside, survive on my own. It's much more rewarding, I think. I've traveled back and forth over the Sierras so many times I've lost count, and I'm up and down the west coast at least twice a year. It's nice, you watch your own back, and don't have to worry about anything besides what your next meal will be, and how to avoid being something else's next meal.

That's something I've always disagreed with other people about, just the general view of life in Apocalyptica. The way some people talk about it, you'd think it's something out of Fallout, some irradiated desert where nothing can survive, but that's not true. I think of it like those scenes in I am Legend – remember that movie? - where it's just a montage of Will Smith living a good life with his dog. Lots of wild animals, everything's quiet, everything's overgrown. That, to me, seems more like what I experience. Zombies don't bug anything but people, as long as nothing's stupid enough to get close to them. Something about seeing a pack of wild horses roaming around makes you think; 'I've made good choices with my life.'

When I am in havens, I spend most of my time trading and living with my buddy, Wess. We survived the first few weeks of the apocalypse together, holed up in his little 1-bedroom house outside Sacramento. To be honest, Wess is the only reason I stayed alive. He's a guru on surviving the zombie apocalypse, knows everything there is to know. He's the one who takes care of my truck, and trades the scraps of supplies I collect into fresh food. He likes experimenting, always working on something or other. He makes a lot of money off of selling mines to the city, makes them out of bleach and old slotted toasters. He's real well connected, too, knows all the city councilmen, though how he does, I have no idea. You should talk to him, he could probably get you an interview with the mayor or someone important.

Anyways, that's enough blathering. Edit this how you will, use it if you want. I've got other stuff to do.

-Daryl Romanson, Spring '21