Haven’t been out much this week. It is hot. Too hot. The kind that saps you the moment you’re in it.
And… the thing is… they smell. The zombies. They smell bad. Obviously, they smell bad. But all that rotting flesh in this heat. I can cope with a lot, but the smell is just too much…
On my last run I stopped to throw-up and one of them almost got me. A crawler. Hate crawlers. Hate the whole lot of them.
How can the dead move?
It’s just… it’s getting to me this week.
I’m meant to go out later. There’s a break in the weather so it’ll probably be ok. Sometimes I think it’s weird how we’re given numbers. The psychology of it, I mean. Are the numbers meant to make it easier when a zom finally gets us? It’s like we weren’t really here.
Well. I was here – am here. I am here. This diary proves that.
Maybe I’ll even tell you my name.