Friday, July 17th, 2037

Doriana is out there again. In the hay loft of the barn, with the doors wide open, knockin' each one of those infected walkers out with a bullet dead center between the eyes. She's using dad's old shot gun. The one he used to teach Dori and I how to shoot when we were kids. It's the same gun she had pressed against dad's forehead just this morning.

Neither of us knows how it happened to dad. How he got it, but he did. Dori found him out in the yard, with his face buried in stomach of the neighbors collie. She said that when he saw her, he tossed the dog down like a rucksack and charged at her. When I heard the commotion and came out of the house, she had him down on the ground with the barrel of his own shot gun pressed down hard against his head. I was so panicked and freaked out that all I can remember is screaming obscenities and running back and forth between dad and Dori, not knowing what to do.

“Drae stop!” Dori shouted without taking her eyes off dad. “He's sick, Drae. We have no choice!” I hurried up to her side so I could see. I felt a wave of adrenaline and disbelief wash over my body as the realization of what I saw hit me. Dad's eyes were black. Completely black, the way you imagine the eyes of a demon. His nose was broken and his face was cut up in several places. There were pieces of skin missing from his cheeks. It looked as though he'd tried to dive face first over one of those razor wire fences. What made me sick though, was the blood around his mouth. I don't know why I asked Dori about it. I wish I hadn't. But when I did, she turned and pointed to a spot next to us in the tall grass. “It's Petey.” She said, as I walked up to him. "You know, Mark's dog. From bout' a quarter mile down the road."

Petey's fur was almost entirely covered in blood. His stomach had been ripped open and most of his intestines were hanging out. I shrieked unintentionally and then threw up. Dori hushed me sternly; with the barrel still against dad's head and her foot on his chest as he flailed his arms up against her. “Shhhhh!!! Drae, shut the fuck up! There may be others!”

We had heard about people in other countries getting sick like this for some time now. But of course they never show “the infected” on the news. So, until now, we didn't know what one would  look like. Dad told us to prepare ourselves for the worst. "Your worst nightmare." Is what he'd said and compared it, in some way to the death of our mother before thanking god that was gone. So dad and Dori and I have been preparing for the rage the last couple of weeks, knowing that eventually the infection would spread everywhere. Knowing that when it did, it would be each man and woman for themselves.

Still bent down with my hands on my knees, I looked up from the pile of vomit in the grass and wiped my mouth. “Please Dori, don't kill him.” My voice came out softer and sounded much more weak than I'd expected, but I didn't care.

“God damn it Drae!” It was obvious that Dori was angry and frustrated but she didn't respond further or turn to look at me. Instead, she whipped the butt of the gun over before I realized what she was doing and slammed the end of it hard against dad's head.

Instantly, his body fell limp. Dori didn't look up, but said to me in a hushed and breathy voice, “Dad told me what to do if this happened. Go get the chain out of the barn. It's hanging just inside the door to the right. We don't have to worry about the other end. Dad cemented it into the back of the barn last week.”

I'm not sure why I wasn't surprised by this, but I wasn't. I just stood up and began to walk towards the barn before Dori fired the shot gun. I stopped for a second as my heart jumped but I didn't turn to look back. I knew she didn't shoot dad. "Grab the gasoline," she said. "We'll burn Petey just to be safe. And don't forget the lock for the collar on the chain.”

That was earlier this morning.

Ever since we chained up the man that was our dad and burned what was left of Petey, the infected have been showing up pretty consistently. They seem to come in waves or herds and then trickle in oddly. We probably shouldn't have burned the dog but it's too late now. And besides, unless I'm willing to put in a good argument and fight for what I want, I don't bother challenging Dori on anything. We may be twins but otherwise we are nothing alike. She is headstrong and incredibly stubborn. I used to hate it when we younger, but I'm thankful for it now since she might just keep us alive. I am worried about her though. Ever since we slapped that inch-thick, steel collar around dad's neck, padlocked it and drug him over toward the barn, she's been out there, above him upstairs, the old shot gun in her hand taking out the infected. One by one with a bullet between the eyes.