anything useful—I took the car keys. I broke out the house's back door. I got my things. I got my dog.
Mr. Ages didn't settle down for hours. Only when I stopped to let it digest. That was when I noticed the knife in my shoulder. I yanked it out, chucked it out, put the car in park and lifted my leaden foot off the brake.
I hugged him hard.
I wish he could have understood why I'd left him, how sorry I was that it scared him.
I don't know how long I held him—just until I noticed how much blood I was getting on him and how dizzy I felt.
I barely managed to cover the wounds before I passed out.
When I woke up, the car was out of gas.
I don't know how much blood I lost. I got sick and had many hours to contemplate if I'd be a busy body soon. The fever didn't help—my reasoning or my fear.
I ditched the car after I came around and managed to keep all my supplies.
Cars get picked over probably more than homes or stores—because there's more of them and it's safer. So I don’t like to sleep in them because I feel justified in my concern that someone may try to get in it. Then I'd be a sitting duck.
The blood loss and fever didn't give me much choice. I put down the seats in a minivan, locked up and lay down in the back.
I lost a lot of days. I'm glad my watch keeps track of dates.
I feel very weak when I think that my watch's battery dying will upset me as bad as I'm afraid it will.
Mr. Ages has messed himself in the van multiple times, but I wasn't always clear enough to let him out. Then he needed water and food—so did I.
She must have had the knife when she jumped on me.
I killed three people—easily. I was scared out of my mind, but I think it should have been hard.
The busy body in the backyard had a shirt on, hadn't she? When I stepped over her she didn't. I heard what he said. I've seen enough apocalypse movies to know...
So I’ll never be sorry about killing him .
I guess I know now what would happen if I came across other survivors.
But I don't know what to feel about it.
Dec 16 7:16am
When I was fourteen I found a dead person.
It was spring thaw and the snow receded enough that the shape of the exposed ground around him looked like a gingerbread man.
I knew who he was. I'd never met him. I couldn’t even remember his name, but I remember all the articles and the news about the missing hunter.
The blaze orange jacket was in ribbons; he'd been eaten on—a lot. The claw marks were clear. Bites that weren't successful enough to tear out chunks left clear indications of the feasting done after he was dead. I hoped .
I felt miserable for him, imagining what he went through. I never would have thought I might likely die a similar way.
Statistic keepers say… what now are a person’s odds of dying by gunshot or being eaten alive???
90% is the answer.
“Death by zombie.”
Please phrase that in the form of a question.
“I apologize, Mr. Trebek. What is the chance of death by zombie?
You are absolutely right.
The police would later say he'd probably accidently shot himself in the gut.
I will never forget any detail of that moment—standing there while the scent made an imprint on my mind. Like a sixth sense.
Since then—no meat on the bone. I stopped eating store made burritos and fast food chicken sandwiches when more than once something crunched in them and I couldn't identify it. Cartilage? Bone? Teeth?
Too close to the animal. No skin. No bone. And the only time I better see anything like bloody is in steak. I don't know why it's different. It just is.
So I just can't understand how I did that.
Will I have to do it again?
7:21pm
No more confrontations.
Run and hide will be a mantra. A way of life—literally.
I'm done with this shit.
Here’s a question I never asked myself:
Would I rather go through the apocalypse as the weak, guilt ridden person I was before
-or-
as a stranger that does whatever she has to do to live? Anything she has to do.
I don't like to take
Mr. Ages didn't settle down for hours. Only when I stopped to let it digest. That was when I noticed the knife in my shoulder. I yanked it out, chucked it out, put the car in park and lifted my leaden foot off the brake.
I hugged him hard.
I wish he could have understood why I'd left him, how sorry I was that it scared him.
I don't know how long I held him—just until I noticed how much blood I was getting on him and how dizzy I felt.
I barely managed to cover the wounds before I passed out.
When I woke up, the car was out of gas.
I don't know how much blood I lost. I got sick and had many hours to contemplate if I'd be a busy body soon. The fever didn't help—my reasoning or my fear.
I ditched the car after I came around and managed to keep all my supplies.
Cars get picked over probably more than homes or stores—because there's more of them and it's safer. So I don’t like to sleep in them because I feel justified in my concern that someone may try to get in it. Then I'd be a sitting duck.
The blood loss and fever didn't give me much choice. I put down the seats in a minivan, locked up and lay down in the back.
I lost a lot of days. I'm glad my watch keeps track of dates.
I feel very weak when I think that my watch's battery dying will upset me as bad as I'm afraid it will.
Mr. Ages has messed himself in the van multiple times, but I wasn't always clear enough to let him out. Then he needed water and food—so did I.
She must have had the knife when she jumped on me.
I killed three people—easily. I was scared out of my mind, but I think it should have been hard.
The busy body in the backyard had a shirt on, hadn't she? When I stepped over her she didn't. I heard what he said. I've seen enough apocalypse movies to know...
So I’ll never be sorry about killing him .
I guess I know now what would happen if I came across other survivors.
But I don't know what to feel about it.
Dec 16 7:16am
When I was fourteen I found a dead person.
It was spring thaw and the snow receded enough that the shape of the exposed ground around him looked like a gingerbread man.
I knew who he was. I'd never met him. I couldn’t even remember his name, but I remember all the articles and the news about the missing hunter.
The blaze orange jacket was in ribbons; he'd been eaten on—a lot. The claw marks were clear. Bites that weren't successful enough to tear out chunks left clear indications of the feasting done after he was dead. I hoped .
I felt miserable for him, imagining what he went through. I never would have thought I might likely die a similar way.
Statistic keepers say… what now are a person’s odds of dying by gunshot or being eaten alive???
90% is the answer.
“Death by zombie.”
Please phrase that in the form of a question.
“I apologize, Mr. Trebek. What is the chance of death by zombie?
You are absolutely right.
The police would later say he'd probably accidently shot himself in the gut.
I will never forget any detail of that moment—standing there while the scent made an imprint on my mind. Like a sixth sense.
Since then—no meat on the bone. I stopped eating store made burritos and fast food chicken sandwiches when more than once something crunched in them and I couldn't identify it. Cartilage? Bone? Teeth?
Too close to the animal. No skin. No bone. And the only time I better see anything like bloody is in steak. I don't know why it's different. It just is.
So I just can't understand how I did that.
Will I have to do it again?
7:21pm
No more confrontations.
Run and hide will be a mantra. A way of life—literally.
I'm done with this shit.
Here’s a question I never asked myself:
Would I rather go through the apocalypse as the weak, guilt ridden person I was before
-or-
as a stranger that does whatever she has to do to live? Anything she has to do.
I don't like to take
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