Dear Author,

Your writing is as cliched as roses are red. As your main character, I feel compelled to tell you that you're sticking to old tropes and it's boring for everyone involved. Damaged girl from a rocky upbringing, marries young, lives in misery, has a kid, blah blah blah. It's been written before and with more artistic flair than your sardonic drivel.

Your readers are giving up early -- they know how books like this end. Even you are bored of making decisions, editing, starting again. Look, we're all exhausted. So either put up the pen and toss me into the fire or write something real. Have me live a life that means something.

Yours truly,

You

I knew I hated you and a child would never change you, but I didn't know how to leave. So I grew a person to share in my misery. I knew that was selfish but I knew better how to lie to myself, "Everything will work out for the best".

I knew that my troubles lived in my mind and within our bed and within our conversations but I convinced us to move 1,000 miles away to escape those troubles. The troubles grew more hateful but now I was away from the help of friends, and away from the shame of their knowing.

I knew our son was not thriving with you but you did not know how to earn money, and we were hungry. I left you two alone and hoped for the best and let you spend all the money I made, because that would make you happy. But I knew that the happiness didn't last long and niether did the food.

I knew the 1,000 mile journey to our home would mean a lower cost of living which we needed now that you knew that working was less frustrating than staying home with a baby. I didn't know then that our time together was almost over but the hopelessness was not.

I knew that I would put up with all of your actions because everyone knows children need two parents. But I didn't know that you were capable of demanding sex, indifferent of my clearly stated disgust and pain. And it was then, that I knew where I drew the line.

I knew that being a single mother would be difficult but I had no idea I'd be so hungry and so poor and so depressed.

I jokingly thought to myself today "I'm so hungry I might could give a blow job for a cart of groceries" and then I realized, I couldn't or I'd still be with you.

And a few hours later, hungrier still, I wondered if I ever really knew anything at all.

Its stomach grew between ripe Science classes and a weedwork of electrical wires and the pink-feather of insulation. The door remained unlocked; the lights were flicked on in the morning by a sleepy department head and flicked off by a custodian whose back vac made her a ghostbuster. A general lack of students kept the air icy and mostly free of the muck-must of human bodies, a scent corrupted by cheetos and armpit and the cheese of feet, although the room occassionaly fed on students looking for a place to study, romantic couples with forged hall passes, and a red-nosed assistant principal who napped on Fridays by the cabinets—some of their grease and wet spray of conversation remained behind as particles on the carpet. The only noise was the buzzing tempo of air-conditioned lungs.

Since classrooms have no natural predator, the room sat, and sat, like a forgotten box of baking soda in the fridge—without purpose—without function — absorbing funky odors. The first pang of its profession came with the appearance of a bearded fellow, shaggy and shortsighted as a bear with spectacles, who lumbered into the room and occupied the desk, a vantage which offered the desktips and distant blue cabinets—a corner where he wouldn't fear a sneak (in truth, the fellow only dreaded poisoned coffee). The hermit hid there, received his paycheck, watched for enemies at the door, and put up posters that read, "You never fail until you stop trying," and "It's okay to not know but it's not okay to not try." Perhaps he operated under that mantra of bibles and baseball movies: 'if you build it, they will come.' But no one came, and the fellow died in the fetal beneath his desk.

It was all a blur, the smell of vomit thick in the air.

It burnt my nostrils, the metallic stench of their blood.

The gun smoke dancing lazily in the air where I ended the lives of my mother and aunt.

Wayland took me away from the scene and covered the bodies.

My father always told me to keep a gun close and hidden just in case.

But… but I never thought it would be to end the life of my savage aunt who I found gnarling away at my mother’s brains in bathroom entrance.

My brothers hadn’t been bitten and I was now shoving clothes and food into our backpacks. I had an emergency bag packed for disasters… I never thought I’d need it, but then again. Seeing a zombified version of my aunt killing the woman that gave birth to you sends a kick to the face for you to realize that the disaster had struck.

It was the dead of night and the screams were echoing around the locked house as my nine year old brother cried. “Stop it. Please we need to get got. Help Wayland pack.” I had gotten him up off the floor by our dead mother and pushed him into the kitchen with our older brother, only a year older than me at eighteen, as he cursed and prayed.

But I don’t think God cared much, about the vulgarity of his prayer. I prayed that my father was safe, he was at war and now it was us too.

I got the two bags I had already packed lacing my combat boots on and pulling on my black jacket on as I made sure the boys were done. “We need dad’s gun Kai.” He exclaimed as Hayden’s eyes widened through his tears.

“I know the combination. Get him to stop crying and wait on me.” I hurried to the bedroom. The blue floral sheet I used to cover my aunts body dampened with blackish blood. I held back the vomit and entered the room. I yanked open the closet door and hurried to unlock the safe. The lock clicked and I thanked any God who was listening that he hadn’t changed it before returning to war. I took out four guns; I sheathed two blades around my ankle and grabbed the machete he kept in the back on the closet. I checked each gun for bullets and turned the safety on. Didn’t need the kid to get himself hurt. I was lucky to have been trained to use them. My brother knew how to use them, but wasn’t as invested as I was.

Glass shattered in the distance. “Kai! Kai!” I snapped up, grabbing two boxes of bullets as I shoved them into my bag and ran to meet Wayland and Hayden cowering from Mr. Roberts, the plumber next door. I didn’t hesitate as I put two caps into his head. I grabbed the car keys from the hooks by the door. “Get out!” they ran out and I followed after, my eyes on alert as I tossed my brother the keys. He caught it and I thanked God for his years of the basketball team. I yanked the van door open and stuff the bags and my little brother in.

“Go the cove.” He didn’t hesitated, he took off in a heat and I wondered if this all happened because the government were ignorant to the minor disease that seem to come from nowhere. The cove was a safe house my father made for us. He was a survivalist and I happened to inherit his gift. I had to keep these two alive now. It was my job. The new world was coming and I needed to be ready.

I, Kaian Holden was just forced to protect my brothers and a world that was beginning to destroy itself. Was this the end?

November 30th 2077 Entry 1.

Oh my god, oh my god, oh my fucking god. I'm hiding. I've got a kitchen knife clenched in one hand, pen in the other, and I'm hiding.

I can hear the screams of others in the distance, the sound of tearing flesh, the shuffling bodies in the undergrowth just outside of the door. I don't understand what's happening. How everything has changed so quickly. 

Blood pouring from his mouth.

Flesh being ripped from her throat.

Tears flowing.

Anguished words renting the air.

Rain is lashing down outside, lightning and thunder keep making me jump every time it happens. My hands are shaking so much I'm not sure I'm going to be able to ever even read this back. If I'm even still alive to read this back.

My mum is dead.

My dad killed her.

I had to kill him.

Tears are falling down my face and splashing on the page, that's going to make it even harder to read than just the shaking hands. I can already see the ink spreading.

I keep thinking I'm going to have a panic attack, I'm amazed I haven't yet. Every time I start, something makes me jump again, forcing me to stay in the now, which is probably going to cause me to have a heart attack, I forgot to bring my anxiety meds wih me, so a heart attack would probably be a blessing. 

Although, we might actually be in the end of the world. After all those shows I've watched, the books I've read, the films I've been to see, with zombies, I just never actually thought it would happen.

If that is what has happened, fuck knows, maybe it's just some.... I dunno... Some sort of fucked up rabies for humans?

I'm laughing to myself now, human rabies, yeah ok, and I've grown wings and turned into a fucking fairy.

After I'd killed my dad....

I...

I stabbed him in the back of the head. I remembered that much from the shows. I went on auto pilot then. When we had the floods last year, we were advised to make sure we had a bag packed and ready to go at all times, the essentials packed and ready. A disaster bag they call it. 

Hearing the screams outside I ignored them. I went and grabbed the bag. 

All three of the bags actually.

Then I started throwing in all the extra food I could. 

Someone started banging on the door.

Screaming at me to let them in. Screaming for anyone to help them. Begging and pleading.

Then the screams changed.

High pitched and primal.  

Ignoring it all I carried on packing. Grabbing my jacket from the floor where I'd thrown it the night before, I slung it over my shoulder and start piling myself with the bags. Trying to make them comfy, already sagging under the weight of the three of them. Moving to the front door, I went to unlock it, before realising I didn't have anything to protect myself with, I went back, grabbed the big kitchen knife, and then went back to the door.

I opened it slowly, one inch at a time to make sure there was nothing there. 

A sob caught in the back of my throat.

Mrs Fry was on the porch, her throat and stomach torn apart. A bloodied mess bundled in her arms, a bit of the pink blanket was still showing through. 

Trying to keep the vomit down, I swallowed repeatedly, the acidic taste burning my throat, bringing water to my eyes. 

Closing the door behind me, I locked it up tight, hoping I would be back there one day. Looking around the roads were awash with blood, but I couldn't see anything else moving around me. There were a few curtains twitching, but no one offered a hand. No one opened the doors. No one even waved.

Looking for where my dad had parked the car, I walked towards it, hoping I could remember the way to the cabin. 

That's when I heard the cry from behind me.

I turned and noticed the bloodied bundle starting to move. 

Her baby was still alive.

I went to the car and put the bags in, climbed into the driver's side and closed all the doors.

I even put the key in the ignition and started the car.

Then I jumped out, ran and grabbed the baby, bundled the blanket from the back of the car in the footwell of the passenger side, and placed the baby there.

Then I got back in the car, and drove here.

I wished I could have kept my eyes closed on the journey. I'm not ready to talk about where I saw yet. 

The sites were.

They.......

I just vomited. 

The baby has started grizzling. What the fuck am I supposed to do with her? I should have left her.

Oh fuck.

Someone's banging on the door.

Shit.

I don't want to wait until Friday for my grand escape but I also don't want to miss my scheduled delivery from UPS. I received an email from Chrome Industries in San Francisco that they shipped my messenger bag after I dropped it off for repairs. For whatever reason except wishful clairvoyance - I decided to use their lifetime warranty and get a pocket hole in my beat up hipster bicyclist bag stitched two days before the run of the zombies. Talk about fast service from their awesome sewer with a one day turnaround time! UPS Tracking Number 1ZY837F30396488870 states that I should receive my bag by Friday but who knows what, if anything, will be alive and at the front of my apartment by then.

Sitting on my suitcase by the side of the road. In front of what used to be the biggest and busiest airport on the continet. 900km from home. *Alone*. In stupefying awe.

Since the very beginning of the red alert, nobody wanted to believe the failure to contain the epidemic is imminent. How could it not be? The population density either too high or extremely low. Alienating work of money based economy. Industrial food. Air? Offices, planes, buses, gyms, classrooms, factories, labs, supermarkets...

In hindsight, what strikes me the most is the fact everybody could see it coming. But they went about their days, weeks and years changing nothing. I am no exception. I felt anxious, I felt as though I was slipping into insanity. But I never did anything. Didn't know what to do. Although I never knew of anything else, it hasn't seemed normal to me in a very long time.

Now that I think about it, I'm not quite sure when or where Project Afterlife originated. I was born into it. So were my parents. And theirs. Guess I should have payed more attention during history classes...

People around me are trying to overtake the few remaining functional airport shuttles. I am not. I still don't know what to do. I observe the panic around me. I see a man getting his leg continually hit by the closing shuttle door. He has to be aware that any bruises or open wounds increase the chance of infection. Maybe he just doesn't care.

I continue sitting on my suitcase. I still don't know what to do. I watch some people go down with the afternoon sun. I sense I am not an exception. I still don't know what to do. I am becoming increasingly calm.

I don't even know what all has been going on these past few days. The news reports have all been pouring in, people missing, horrific police murders and even families eating each other! I don't understand any of it. I write this in my bedroom by candle light. The moans... Oh god the moans... They won't stop. They beckon me. Slowly drive me towards insanity. I don't want to, but the inevitability that I might join their ranks is growing with each passing minute. My food is running low and my stomach is aching so much with hunger now. I'm trying to ration things, but my wound is getting worse. I don't know what is going to happen to me and I don't want to think about it. My wife, Susan and my daughter Lucy are at the door, pounding...Moaning ... Bleeding. They don't know what they are and I don not think that they are even there anymore. They are replaced by the monsters hidden inside them. I have seen what the bites do to you. They make you crazy, cannibalistic and most of all, null to any pain. I can't feel my arm, the wound is great and so is the pain in my shoulder. My sight is growing ever dimmer, but I must share what has happened or else, this will be covered up. Take this entry, whoever you are and put it everywhere. The neighbors started it. Those blasted chemists finally came up with a cure for the common cold, but it had an unintended side effect. They had turned at their job and then were taken to the hospital where it all came from. They were climbing fences, breaking doors and eating people... The screams. My god, the screams were the worst of all. They didn't stop. They're still going as I write this. I wish I could tell more, but I'm out of paper. I'm sorry I couldn't help, Lucy, Susan. Please... Please forgive me.

I've left this here in hopes of you finding me alive. Next to this letter is my ID so you know what I look like. My number is below...Text me, DON'T call. Hopefully, my phone will still be on by the time you read this. There is a Wal-Mart bag with some things you may need next to my ID. I'll be leaving a trail of Reese's wrappers and if I run out...well, I hope you're good at solving mysteries.

The car outside is completely destroyed so don't even think about it. How they figured out how to shred every wheel, the world may never know. Take note: they're not as dumb as we thought.

Yes, there is a mini bar (sorry about the empty bottles everywhere. I got a little carried away) I also took almost all of the good stuff with me... However, I did leave you one Crown Royal in the bag for liquid courage. I'll share the rest with you if you find me, or, if I haven't drunk them all.

Cheers, Good Luck, and God Speed

From or Love:

Your Friendly Neighborhood Drunk

I had a daughter..have a daughter. Who gives a flying fuck it's just words.

Times change and a father should protect his children from harm. I am a miserable failure in this way. The first failure was my marriage. My family. If I were closer to her then I could have done something to stop this. All this..madness that is happening..

I can hear her voice..I mean I was delusional before it all happened. I heard whispers telling me to wake up. Telling me I was asleep and I needed to wake up. I should have listened then. I heard my brother back then, calling, not from beyond a grave but from a different reality, one where he hadn't put that bag over his head. That was hard to ignore.

The world felt strange to me back then but at least it was realistic. What the hell am I supposed to believe? That I am in a coma and I need to wake up or this? Dead. Living. It is all a blur now. I have tried many times to believe it but I can hear my little girl calling. 

Please be real. Don't make this be a delusion. This is too cruel to do to a man. To promise him his family restored. Fuck the dead. Fuck this...thing! Let me live in a new life.. no an old life! Let these pages be a memory from a sick mans dreams and let me wake up! Please! Don't let this be the end of me before I can see them again!!!

Let me wake up!