January 3rd

Jimmy here and I am still alive.

Chuck and Annie didn’t come back. I don’t think they will. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I got the generator up and I hooked it up to a toaster oven I found. The generator runs on gas and I have no idea how much it uses. Chuck has 2 six-gallon jugs of gasoline here. I am trying to ration it somehow. I’m having my one hot meal for the day. It is a bowl of split pea soup. I am not sure if it will heat well in the oven but that is all I have right now. I’ll write till I think the soup is done.

I also checked the TV and that was a bust. Cable is understandably out. I tried to get a local station but all I am getting is static. There isn’t even a test pattern or something. It freaked me out too much so I shut it off.

The radio was a different matter. One station is still broadcasting Christmas music which is a sick joke. Other stations are either down or just broadcasting a repeating message about people staying indoors. A lot of fucking good advice that is.

I guess I should explain who Chuck and Annie are. After I left the bookstore, and man, I am still not ready to talk about why, it was pretty fucking scary. This was after five days of living there. I snuck out one morning while everyone else was asleep. I took Brook’s not awfully useful Zombie Survival guide, some bottled water and some muffins. I also took the only flashlight we had.

I don’t feel bad for a second for stealing from them. The things they did and justified make them worse than zombies in my mind.

Let me tell you though, outside was a Hell of a lot worse than inside. Zombies were everywhere. Dead people that weren’t moving were in big supply too.

You know how in ’28 Days Later’, everything is quiet and empty? Shit, I would have killed for that kind of solitude. Every five feet there was another zombie who just decided that I looked delicious.

The thing that saved my ass is how slow they are. They were as slow as a Tween trying to decide which Twilight knock-off they wanted to read next. I got a little cocky when I killed my first one. It was a lawyer looking guy. He was maybe in his thirties and looked like the kind of dick that comes in and buys everything with Rush Limbaugh’s picture on it.

I grabbed a briefcase that was on the ground and swung at the head like I was trying out for the Braves. The skull caved right in. The brain splatter was disgusting but fuck, first kill! He went down and that was it. I felt like a superhero.

So like a block from the lawyer guy, I run into this Buckhead Betty. That is what we call the trophy wives who grow up to get divorced in their 40’s. They are always Botoxed all to Hell and have zero patience for anyone who works for a living. She shambled toward me in her fur coat and smeared lipstick.

Now I’m cocky right? I see her and maybe I could have crossed the street to avoid her. I sure as fuck could have out run her, but no, I think I’m Ash from Evil Dead. I run right at her and swing my killer briefcase.

The briefcase bounced right off of its head. What the fuck? Did she have a steel plate in there or did my first zombie have some sort of bone disease? I was so surprised she grabbed my arm. She opened her mouth bit down on my arm. I screamed like a little girl and yanked back as hard as I could.

Her fucking teeth flew out of her mouth. The Buckhead Betty was wearing dentures and they slipped right out when I pulled my arm out. The bitch didn’t even tear my jacket.

I dropped the briefcase and ran. I ran into a crowd of three zombies eating somebody but they ignored me. When it is eating time, zombies can be pretty single minded.

Looking back on it I think I picked the best day to make my run for it. It looked like a lot of people had the same idea. They had holed up in houses or stores and they thought now was a good time to get out. All of those people out and about gave the zombies something to munch on.

It reminded me of dodgeball. Most kids hated playing that game but it was my favorite. I found out real quick that if you are behind someone, it is a lot harder to get smacked by a painful red ball. That is what I did that day. I looked for eating zombies and used them as stepping stones. They were too busy chowing down. Southerners hate to stop eating till their plate is clean, you know? It seems odd to use munching zombies as safety zones but damn it works.

Max Brooks never put that in his fucking guide.

I don’t want you to get the impression that it was easy. Sure, eating zombies would leave me alone but they were eating. They were eating pretty women, old policemen, guys in suits, women in expensive coats and twice, twice I saw them eating a child.

It is the sound that is so bad. Zombies eating sound like a bunch of staving kids ripping into a bucket of fried chicken. Crackling, snapping, fucking slurping sounds will drive you crazy. I try not to look. I TRIED but you hear it and then you imagine it and you know it is some pretty woman’s flesh getting chewed.

Fuck. Every loud muncher was a safe muncher, but also an audible reminder of what could happen to me.

Soup is done. The oven safe casserole dish I put it in is fucking hot. I’m going to stop here and eat. Shit, let’s see if I can eat after remembering those sounds.

Maybe tomorrow one of you readers can come get me.