Day 1

Dear Diary,

I last turned to you when I was six years old, distraught when my brother threw my favourite teddy bear out the window. I'd stepped on a CD of his by accident and broken it, and he wreaked his revenge on Timmy Ted, who was forever spoiled, drowned in the mud. Back then I didn't write it quite so succinctly or eloquently.

I'm 17 now. I know, it's been a while. I won't bore you with everything that has happened in between. This morning is enough. Nothing before that matters.

I was getting changed for college when the door burst open. I turned to shout at my brother for not knocking when I was lunged at by a frenzied... I don't know what to call it. Its naked body was male and human, but the body was just the host. Its head swayed constantly and it foamed at the mouth like a rabid dog. Its skin wasn't white anymore, but a greyish green, as if the jerking flesh was already decomposing. I kicked it in the stomach and its back crashed into my bedroom window, shattering the window pane. I grabbed my skateboard and hit it in the face. Just hit it and hit it and hit it. The skateboard's wheels spinned around furiously with each strike. The creature groaned and some teeth flew out, along with something that looked more like pus than blood. It lurched backwards and that's when I dealt an upward blow underneath the slanted jaw, sending it over the window sill and crunching the shattered glass.

I heard it hit the paving on the front drive, but didn't stop to see whether it had died. I ran to Jack's room instead. No one there. His bedding was torn to shreds.

Back in the day, straight after Teddygate, when the tears were still streaming down my face, I had wished that Dad would throw Jack out the window so he would get a taste of his own medicine. Not that I had called it Teddygate then. I see now that I recorded it as the Worst Thing Ever, and I broke off from joined-up writing to hammer home the point.

Ha. Well, six-year-old me, you didn't have a fucking clue.

Too scared to go downstairs in case there were others, I looked out of Jack's window. Maybe he was already downstairs and had gone outside to see what the hell had just landed with an almighty crack. That's when I saw him on the ground. Him. Not it. Now that the raging red eyes were closed and the contorted movements had stopped, I recognised him. I'd dished out the medicine myself.

I don't know how long I stood there staring at him. I moved again when two of those creatures came stumbling into the garden and dragged him into the bushes towards the front gate, where there were more of them on the street. I'd seen enough.

I've grabbed a few things and brought them into the attic, which is where I found you again. Amazingly, the little pen that came attached to you still works. I've otherwise got my phone and charger, half a bottle of water and various pills from the medicine cabinet. I figured that I have a few options up here for a speedy exit. Either I jump off the roof, or I can overdose, or both. Alternatively, I can string together the spare bedsheets up here into a noose. I want to die as me, not like Jack did.

My phone's not connecting to the internet, so I've no idea what or who infected my brother. For all I know, I might be infected already. I don't know if this is just in my village, in the whole country or in the whole world. I don't know if Dad even made it to work without turning into one of them.  I might not live to write on your final page. You might not see me through to the end of this. Perhaps they'll move on past my street. I think you can go for up to three days without water.

But until they find me, I must keep going.

As long as I can recall the teddy bear incident, I must keep going.

As long as I can write, I must keep going.

As long as I can read, I must keep going.

And you are going to help me.