The Zombie Journals Day 1

10 Nov

I don’t care to leave my name. My name doesn’t matter at this point.

I should write: “if your reading this, than I am dead.”

But that sounds too cliche, and may not be accurate. I could have lost this journal somewhere and you found it. Let’s hope so. I don’t want to die by zombie hand.

If you found it, you can’t return it to me, even if you knew my name. Proving to you and me that my name does not matter. Don’t ask again.

I will tell you I live in Orlando, Florida. Born in Columbus, Ohio. I wish I was still in Ohio. At least in the winter time the zombie attacks slow down with the cold weather, but guess what doesn’t happen in sunny Florida?


I had a good job with a local internet company. I was the guy that went to your house when you had a problem, or needed a new hookup.

I had a wife and three kids and no, they are not dead.

I’m separated. Really separated.

My wife and kids hate me. Really hate me.

A lot.

Grandpa turned into a zombie and I killed him. The way I see it, he would have killed us. The way the rest of the family sees it, I killed Grandpa.

I wish it didn’t happened in front of the kids.

And, of course, it was her Dad, not mine.

In our neighborhood there are probably about 60 to 70 houses. I would guess less than 20 are still occupied. We are the holdouts. We are the ones that do not leave our houses for no one or no thing, whether it be a hurricane, tornado, or a zombie apocalypse. The front of the neighborhood is blocked off with abandon cars, orange highway barrels, and fallen telephone poles. I told the others nothing screams come attack me like this make-shift barricade, but it made the others feel better.

It doesn’t stop one zombie or marauder from getting through though.

If it’s less than three zombies that make it through, Old Man Martineaz, who lives closest to the barricade, runs through the neighborhood screaming,

“We’ve been breached, we’ve been breached!”

Then we all leave our caves of a home, grab our favorite weapons (mine being a long sickle-like tree trimmer), and beat the zombie(s) to death…or I guess to death again. Ha Ha.

After that gruesome task, a few of the weaker members of the holdouts have the duty of carting the bodies off and burning them at the old playground in the back of the neighborhood.

Yesterday was the first time, since the start of the zombie attacks we lost one of us…a human. I don’t know his name, I only know his favorite weapon was some sort of gardening shears. He was first on the scene after Old Man Martineaz’s warning call.  I don’t know what possessed him to try to kill the two zombies by himself. This neighborhood has always discussed that we should defend in numbers. I guess he felt temporarily immortal, or he was just an idiot. We all saw everything go down as we were running up to help. It was in slow motion, just like in any action movie. The two zombies flanked him on either side, and as he lashed out at one with the gardening shears, the other took a big old chunk out of his neck. The blood started spewing like a water sprinkler. He grabbed his neck and fell to his knees. At this point the rest of us had made it to the attack. I killed Mr. Gardening Shears, while the others killed the zombies.

When it was all said and done, the others just looked at me, like I had killed Mr.Gardening Shears in cold blood.

He was bit for Christ’s sake.

I told the others just that the very same thing, but they kept staring at me. They eventually left me standing there, by myself, with the two dead zombies and Mr.Gardening Shears.

I think they all hate me now too.

I think I may have to find a new place to live….

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