Oh, I’m a good luck woman,

fearlessly skipping on dancing feet,

holding high above my head,

the crystal ball of fate,

clutched tightly in my hands,

better than the written fate

dangled just out of reach.

Absconded from yesterday,

swinging from hot cat wires,

unable to draw deep breath,

cutting loose with my steps -

wanting to live for today

but finding that my today

was gone by tomorrow,

leaky roof over head

tired and confused.

I grabbed a swirling lifeline

and let myself sail free,

wrote my passion on paper -

I feed you no lies -

I made my luck and

held it close to my chest

I needed serendipity

and it came a-calling

making me a promise

that luck would cling

to me but only if

I never let it go!

I don't know what's going on, what's happening. I normally don't do this kind of thing, but I don't have anyone to talk to anymore and I'm scared. I'm so scared.

I just spoke to my mom yesterday, we were supposed to go out for her birthday on Saturday. I tried calling but she's not answering her phone... I'm hoping the phone towers are just down- I don't -I can't- the alternative is just to much to think about.

Today started off normal. I woke up, skipped breakfast because I was late for work, did my job at the coffee shop, went home -it was all so normal. It wasn't until 4:15 exactly that it seemed the world just stopped and started all over again.

I heard someone screaming outside and I went to look, ready to call 911, just in case, but when I looked-

I'm only writing in this stupid notebook because I don't know what else to do. My apartments been over taken, by those things and looters both. I know I can't stay here, but, I don't want to go outside. I don't want to die, not like that. Not, not like that.

Oh God, I want my mom...

I just. I don't know if I'm gonna make it out of this, but I don't want to be forgotten, another nameless face amongst hundreds of thousands of victims, or even one of those, things. So I'm gonna write it here and hope someone will survive long enough to find it.

My name is Alex J. Dennison, and I'm 20 years old. I'm studying psychology in college and had planned to go abroad in the fall. I live in the tiny studio apartment that you probably found this book in, and I work- worked, oh God- at some hole in the wall coffee shop for minimum wage.

My mom will come looking for me if, if she's still- Mama if it's you reading this, just know I love you, I love you so much-

I just wish I-

Hell. 

I don't know what to write. Or why I'm writing. I guess I hope someone sees this before I die. It's late and it's pretty bad out there. 

Who am I kidding? It's terrible.

The constant fear that one of them might get you. I heard it started here. It's a small island and we're going to be gone in a few days. I've seen them. They don't look any different from us, not like those in the movies. They just walk stiffly and their eyes, they're soulless, dead. 

Not empty but crazed. 

The street outside is empty, illuminated by the lamppost. God, I hope they come soon. The helicopters, I mean. The other countries are supposed to help us, but they're afraid too. If it starts in another country, it's practically the end. There's no turning back.

I'm hiding now. Wherever this place is. There's another guy here but he's sleeping. It's my turn to keep watch. My daughter's head rested on my lap, bringing back some hope. My wife's out there, alone. I hope she makes it. 

It's only been a day, but many are gone. The army's waiting for backup and there's nothing I can do but hope. 

I don't know how long this will last, I don't know when I'll see another zombie again. I don't know if Riley's even alive. Jesus. I don't know.

It's getting desperate up in here. The footsteps are coming closer. I can hear them while I'm writing. It's definitely another zombie. No sane person would walk the streets at night during the apocalypse. I don't know many things now, but I know two. One, a zombie does not fight with other zombies for food. Two, they can sense two things, humans and zombies.

Oh and last thing? I know it's going to turn away. The footsteps are growing fainter.

I'm gonna have to close this entry soon, I have to go. I'm sweating although it's 25 degrees in here. My right arm's hurting and I'm starting to bleed through the bandage from all this writing.

Well, the bite mark doesn't hurt that bad. It just stings. I have to go out now. I sense more zombies. 

I hope I can still come back tomorrow. If you see me, and I don't look at you like a father? 

Run.

   They’re coming. All around. Dark shapes. I see them like ghosts in dreams––when I look they vanish, like vapor at a breath, but out of the corner of my eye I catch them lurking in the shadows. Waiting. For me? Demons––where did they come from? It’s a strange thing, how we humans so desperately fear death . . . . But is it the actual pain of dying we fear? Or is it something beyond that––something more vast and more spiritual?

I think we fear being forgotten. For what is death, if not the catalyst that triggers the beginning of being forgotten? Such a fleeting glimpse of humanity is shown to us in our lives. We are born, tiny, insignificant, helpless. We grow. At some fatal point we comprehend our insignificance, and spend the rest of our futile days in a sort of tenacious hysteria, our every thought and shred of will bent upon imprinting our name in the history of humanity. To be remembered! Ah, but death, the great inevitable of mankind . . . . And time, given enough of itself, washes all away, even the deepest of footprints. Death is nothing but the beginning of the eradication of the finite measure of our memory.

   Such a sorry existence.

   Yet at the end of it all, I remain baffled. Why, while in our mad genius we have managed to walk on the moon and devise the atomic bomb, have we not over thousands of years managed to achieve such simple sense as to see that––perhaps––life is not about not being forgotten after you die? Perhaps it is more about for what you are remembered than how long. But what would I know?

   Ah, they come. And even I am caught in the conundrum.

April 7, 2016

Nobody knows anything anymore. In what is only hours, large parts of the population have become infected. They rage. They kill. They bite and infect. As if that were needed. Apparently, whatever changed them is airborne.

Still, people barricade themselves inside their homes. Some have taken their boats to sea. I don’t have a boat, so I’ve locked myself in at home, too. I think my neighbors have done the same. I hear their baby crying all the time. It seems so loud in the stillness that has fallen over everything. It grates on my nerves, I admit, but they are young. What a terrible time to have a child.

Otherwise, everything is silent. I occasionally hear muted padding from the apartment above me, but apart from that, the silence is overwhelming. I’ve considered going out there, but I don’t dare. Many of the infected have died, but the disease still spreads.

April 8, 2016

My ears twitch at every little sound. No more sound from above. I'm scared.

April 9, 2016

A voice inside tells me I should feel more. Am I in shock? I don’t know. I feel dirty and sweaty, but I don’t dare run more water than I need to survive. Somebody could hear.

April 10, 2016

The crying stopped. Silence covers everything like a blanket. I looked into the mirror today, and hardly recognized myself. That voice inside keeps telling me that this is not how things should be, but it fades before I can ask it what that means. Hardly any infected last more than a few hours. I have decided that staying here is futile. I will go out there. I'm different. The baby’s parents are still lying in their apartment across the hall, and I’m hungry again already.