Dear Diary,

All of those TV shows and movies had been right. The entire time people laughed and cried during all of the pop media featuring the holy undead, and yet, here we are. 

Day one of the zombie apocalypse. 

You think after everything Hollywood had done to show us how to prepare for this, we'd be able to immediately figure out where the first zombies had originated from. Some toxic waste gas that had been been carelessly left alone in some unknown area in the middle of the United States was all it took for the contanimation to spread to its first host, and soon, it claimed many more. Why had this happened?

I don't have much time. As I write, another person falls victim to the grip of the never dying. There are screams of terror filling the streets of this small New Hampshire town as everyone frantically hurries to fetch as many supplies as possible, to lock themselves in their hastily constructed safe houses, to do whatever they can to be with their loved ones.

Weapons are handed out like candy on Halloween, even to the smallest of children. The air reeks of fear, as death begins to encircle where we tremble in our boots.

I consider the possibilities. What do I do? One way or another, there will be bodies everywhere. The thought sickens me to my stomach, and as I write now, I can't help but glance over at the shotgun my aunt had graciously bestowed my family with. I stare at the trigger, thinking about how easily I could click the safety off, aim it at my own head, and be done with it all.

Would that be fair to those who are fighting for their lives? Would it be cowardly of me? God, I don't know. 

I'm scared.