None of The Above

I've survived for years. This journal helps keep me sane.

Maybe it doesn't work.

I'm alone. When I've had friends, accidents happened or complacency killed.

In this new world, the dead eat, and they walk.

I'm not dead yet.

I've carved a life in this Florida sunshine. Summers are hot, winters mild. The storms haven't been more than I can handle.

I made a home on a municipal pier. People used to pay to cross through a turnstile and fish. Now, they pay more if they get too close.

The dead can't get to me. I removed planks, and open air that spills down into the ocean is the moat to my castle. This old Winnebago took a one way drive on a short pier, and it'll never roll back to the mainland. It's the only shelter I need.

I thought I was finished with lonely. I figured after I mourned my last friend, I'd move on.

Then I saw what might be a new friend.

She opened up scars I figured had long healed. Now I realize they weren't scars, just scabs. I'm left with itches that must be scratched, even though it slows healing.

This is a small town, but it's filled with houses. I'm years into this thing, and I subsist from the sea and the flotsam of a thousand vacation homes that broke against the rocky shores of an apocalypse. Scavenging is always dangerous, but I have it down to a science. By the numbers, I move street by street. Day by day. Door by door.

I lost count of how many times I've almost been bitten, and I don't know how often I've been shot at. I remember clearly how often I've shot back.

I'm still here.

So is she.

Today, I introduce myself. I'll move shortly before the sun rises, but full darkness is too dangerous.

I think she is, too.

When I spotted her through a window, she was perfectly still, like she was napping. She had the hue of a walker.

I've never seen them sleep.

Maybe she was dormant, waiting on prey stimulus. I have seen walkers standing like statues and lying like corpses.

Maybe that's all she was doing on the couch.

Maybe she was alive, and I didn't disturb her.

I almost wish I'd broken my rules yesterday, but rules keep me alive. I'd already scored a wagon of supplies; I couldn't carry more. Besides, I need daily routine. Idle hands and devil's work are best friends, but not mine.

What if she's alive?

What if she's not?

I didn't notice decomp. These houses are ovens, baking inside. Results vary on how walkers are impacted, but it's never pleasant.

Luckily they can't open doors, but I wish they'd crack a window.

All I can think about is the gorgeous woman sleeping on the couch.

Either she's alive, or I'm crazy.

Both things can be true as much as none of the above.