Dear Diary....

I hear them every night, their dead, ragged skin slamming against my bunker door. As each hour of the night passes they only grow louder.

Pound.

Pound.

Pound.

I'm not sure how much more of this madness I can take. Every person I have ever known is out there. Every person I have ever loved is dead. How am I meant to cope with this? I highly doubt the usual stages of grief apply to my situation. Yet even if they did, I don't have the luxury of allowing myself to take time away from the few precious hours I get to scavenge on the surface to deal with such petty things as my feelings.

Maybe this should be my last entry, maybe it's time for all of this to end. Even if I survive, what's it all for? What's left for me out there? There's no way in hell I could come up with a cure for all of those who have been affected, I was just a soldier before all of this. That leaves no chance for me to see my wife again. No chance for me to see my little girl grow up....

Maybe those people, those people who I called cowards for throwing themselves to the undead, maybe they were the smart ones. They could see that there was no redemption for us as the human race. They understood that this was the end. They didn't prolong their suffering by trying to live and survive like I have. I'm not sure, but maybe it's time I opened that bunker door and once and for all ended that dreadful pounding.