The Devin Chronicles

The best place to hide from the living dead is in a graveyard; no one, not even a zombie, looks for breathers in a cemetery.

We never got a straight answer as to how this nightmare began. There were a few vague stories on the news, then the eyes went dark, the ears silent; nobody was broadcasting on television or radio. People were being slaughtered by the hundreds, then by the thousands, and when they started coming back … well, that’s when the panic really set in. There were riots in the streets, supermarkets were picked clean, and people gunned each other down for a loaf of bread.

That was 367 days ago. The world as I knew it is lost forever. The country is a wasteland of abandoned houses, dead relatives, and shattered dreams. You can’t trust anyone anymore.

I've been holed up in this mausoleum for damn near a fortnight. It’s dank and reeks of mildew, but it’s got four walls and a roof to keep the rain off my head. I’m burning my last candle as I write this, and what little food I have left won’t last the day. There’s a market nearby, but nothing is near enough these days. Even a city block feels like an insurmountable journey when you've got LDs chasing you.

I haven’t seen another breather for two weeks, and even then they were few and far between. It’s funny what you miss in situations like this. I miss the sound of morning traffic and children playing. I miss popcorn and movie theaters. I miss walking around the city at night and feeling safe. That’s something I took for granted--feeling safe. I haven’t felt safe for 367 days, and it’s taken a toll on me. I saw my reflection a few weeks ago and was appalled by how old I look. My face is lined and my hair is falling out in clumps. I have a few loose teeth, too. Malnutrition is a relentless bitch.

I’ll need to venture out again soon. I'm outside the village of Hemingford Nebraska. It's a small town of 800 people, and supplies are hard to come by. I’ve already hit Raben's Market twice. Maybe today I'll check the Bobcat Pit Stop. I could use a few things from Dave's Pharmacy, too. B&E's never been my thing, but I'll go door-to-door to get the staples if I have to. At the very least I need ammo, food, water, a fresh set of clothes would be nice, some candles, a new pair of shoes, and God only knows what I’d give for a candy bar! I guess I miss chocolate, too.

Mom’s Taurus made it as far as Yellow Springs Ohio before the tank ran dry, so I hoofed it. I've slept in trees, shit in ditches, and like Rambo I've eaten things that would make a billy goat puke, but I'm still here. I've been on foot since Chillicothe. I never stay in one place too long, but I do leave journals like this one behind. If you’re reading this I've already moved on to the next town. People born after D-Day--that’s what they called the day the dead rose and started killing everyone, Dead Day--will have questions, and I hope this journal will provide some answers.

My whole family--mom, dad, my little brother David--were all bitten on D-Day. Within 72 hours over half of the world’s population was dead or undead, but I didn't hang around to watch the carnage.

I've seen children turn on their parents, parents turn on their children, neighbors shoot each other over a can of green beans, and gray-haired grandmas rip the throats out of their loved ones. The world has gone shit-eating mad.

I headed for the hills. I figured where there were fewer people there’d be fewer LDs, and where there were fewer LDs I’d be less likely to have my face eaten off in my sleep. I soon realized that being away from civilization means being away from much-needed survival supplies, so I came back down the mountain. That was two weeks ago, and I've been holed up in this mausoleum ever since.

I duct-taped my first journal under a slide in Birchwood Park in Bethlehem Township, Pennsylvania. The next is buried under a tree in Mocanaquah Park in Peru, Indiana. The third is sealed inside several Ziploc bags and secreted away in the toilet tank of the women’s restroom in The Power Plant Restaurant and Brewery in Parkville, Missouri. This is the fourth, and it will be left here in the burial vault of Colonel James T. McPhee in Hemingford, Nebraska. Maybe someone will find them all and compile them into a book, a How to Survive the Zombie Apocalypse Handbook or something. I've survived for 367 days so far, so I must be doing something right.

I've heard them called a lot of things: biters, walkers, zombies, undead, LDs (living dead). Whatever you call them, there are a few things you need to know if you want to survive:
They don’t need to bite you to turn you. I think we’re all carriers of whatever it is that caused this mess in the first place. Once you die you turn. I haven’t seen any exceptions.
You don’t necessarily have to die first. I saw a teenage girl rip the crucifix necklace off a LD in Pennsylvania; I guess she thought the talisman would protect her. She got some gore in an open cut on her finger and turned within sixty seconds. I had to finish her off, but I took the necklace … just in case.
You must kill them with a head shot. You can use a gun, a bow and arrow, a bat, a knife, an ax … the weapon doesn't really matter as long as you aim for the head. Guns make noise and draw attention, so the quieter the weapon the better.
Animals don’t seem to be affected by the virus, so if you can get some fresh meat, good on you!
Keep moving, and stay low profile. I never stay in one place for more than two weeks. If there are local breathers who think you've got something they want, they won’t hesitate to slit you from gut to gullet to get it.
If you can find one, toss a small water purifier in your pack. That way you can drink out of a mud puddle and not get sick, or so they say. It's worked pretty well for me so far.
Have a couple changes of socks and boots or shoes that fit well, and it wouldn't hurt to have some moleskin on hand for blisters.
I always pack a few candles, a waterproof lighter, a pencil or pen and paper, lightweight foodstuffs, and don’t carry anything canned. It’s too heavy and will slow you down.
Have something to defend yourself with, several things if you can carry them, and try to keep dry.
Don’t trust anyone, no matter how lonely you are. Everyone’s looking out for number one, and there’s no limit to what a mother will do to feed her children when they are hungry.
Travel during daylight hours. LDs are out at all hours of the day and night, but it’s easier to see them during the day.
If you get bit or get their blood in an open wound, it’s better to off yourself with a head shot to prevent coming back as one of them, unless, of course, you don’t mind being part of the mindless flesh-eating undead horde. In that case, carry on!
Sleep inside if possible. Houses, hunting cabins, barns, garages, and mausoleums are always a good bet, but make sure you’re alone before you close your eyes. Trees are okay in a pinch, but I wouldn't recommend them.
Try not to leave yourself defenseless; always have a backup weapon and more than one escape route, if possible--a window, a backdoor, something you can walk or climb through if the shit hits the fan.

I keep hoping there’s a doctor out there somewhere who is working on a vaccine or a cure or something. Surely I can’t be the only one left, can I?

My candle’s almost burnt out, and I only have a few minutes to say what I want to say, which is this: I want people to know I was here. I did exist. I want people to know that, so far, I've survived this shit sandwich for 367 days and I've maintained my humanity; I never hurt anyone who wasn’t trying to hurt me.

My name is Devin Daniels. I was born in Belvidere New Jersey on June 29, 1991. I am twenty-one years old. I was Valedictorian of my graduating class. I like popcorn and movies and chocolate and playing Assassin’s Creed. I like girls. Damn, do I miss girls! Better not to think about it.

I’m going to make a run for it now. Wish me luck! I hope to Christ the Pit Stop has what I need. If I make it out of here alive my next stop will be Brush, Colorado. I’ll leave the next journal somewhere inside the Prairie Café (my mom took me there once when we were on vacation and it reminds me of her).

I’ve got to bounce. Power to the pulsatile!

P.S. To be continued (God willing).