Oh, Edward. I shouldn’t complain about my situation because yours is ever so much more tragic. Bromley is not overrun with zombies yet, but here I sit tonight: cocktail in hand, tears on my cheeks and feeling sorry for myself, trying to document the last few days’ events. I’ve lost only one person dear to me to the infection, yet it seems you have no one. Please don’t think less of me for sounding weak, and thank you for your concern.
Last Thursday: a blur in my memory. Joel’s haunting, hungry stare chilling me to the bones. Me being lonely and thinking maybe there’s a cure for this infection. A magic potion that reverses the effects of rotting flesh and demented brain. My hands opening the basement door across from the front door, then unlocking and opening the front door too. Joel reaching for me with his teeth bared, and me “directing” him with the baseball bat, propelling him down the stairs. Me blocking the basement door with a heavy wooden table and a chair. Me not sleeping since.
He’s still pounding his fists against the door. He makes noises, but his voice isn’t the same. It’s not Joel, really. He doesn’t say words or cry or anything. He just growls, moans and snarls like... I don’t know. I’ve never heard anything like it. I need to try to sleep again.
Good luck at your new home, Edward. Keep me posted.
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