SONNET 29
When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself, and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
-William Shakespeare













Preface

The first thing you’re going to want to know is how it began. Even now, that’s all that some people talk about, like knowing would somehow matter. I don’t know how it started, and I don’t care. You know what I’d like to know? What really matters? How it ended.
But I suppose I’ve got to start somewhere.
The zombie books I used to read always started one of two ways. The authors either explained what happened to cause people to start changing, or they would tell you what the zombies in their imaginary world were like. Since I can’t do it the first way, I’ll do it the second. Sadly though, our world isn’t imaginary, and neither are our zombies if that’s what you want to call them.
At first, they looked normal enough. It’s not like whatever changed them instantly turned them into walking corpses like in those books. All it seemed to do was make them quiet. One minute you were having a conversation with your best friend or your teacher or whoever, the next minute they’d just be staring off in space, ignoring everything and everyone - including the people who were falling over vomiting blood and dying.
We all thought the zombies were the lucky ones. They survived. They were like us, except they were in shock or something. Given all of the death and chaos surrounding us, it was easy to believe. We began to realize there was a problem when they started getting hungry. That took about two days. I’ll skip the details, (you’re welcome) but you can fill in the necessary blanks. They ate anything and everything that crossed their paths. All that seemed to matter was that their food did need to be fresh, as in “walking around” fresh. They ate no carrion, and they didn’t eat each other.
It didn’t take long for them to look something like a caricature of the dirtiest homeless people imaginable. Their clothes, if they had them at all, were in tatters, and obviously zombies have no inclination toward hygiene, so the smell got bad in a hurry.
Even with their appearance and their stench though, we knew they weren’t technically zombies. Real zombies have died and come back. The kinds we have are disgusting enough, but they aren’t corpses. Oh, and they don’t shuffle like zombies. The ones in books are always shuffling their feet and moaning. Ours don’t make noise, and they don’t shuffle. If you saw one walking from a distance, you might easily mistake it for a human, but it’s a mistake you get to make only once.
I sometimes wish they did look and act more like the monsters from books and shows. It would make having to kill them a lot easier. That reminds me. The books always tell you how to kill the zombies. The ones I read always said that you had to damage the brain in order to kill them. Sure enough, that works, but it isn’t the only way. Fire does them in if you have enough of it. You’ve really got to cook them in order for fire to work, but they do seem to retain some sort of healthy respect for it. I can’t say they fear it exactly; they don’t seem to fear anything, but they do try to avoid it if they can. Any kind of massive trauma also usually seals the deal.
My favorite method involves dividing their skulls in two with an axe. Even then though, it’s not always enough. That kind of toughness is the reason a lot of people think the zombies are a result of some kind of military experiment to create a super soldier or something. It’s not like it matters though. However it happened, they’re here now.
In fact, as I write this, an entire herd of them is outside this building trying to claw its way in. The door to this place is reasonably solid, but it won’t hold forever. Doesn’t really matter I guess since I’m planning on opening it soon anyway.
I’ll be long gone, but I don’t imagine the eaters are going to have any interest in this book. That means there’ll be some kind of record of my having been here, something that could give my death a little meaning. Assuming it even gets found. It’s better not to think about it. I have enough problems for today.
Speaking of those problems, I wonder if I had the last few weeks to do over again, knowing now how it’s going to end, would I be smart enough this time just to walk away from that girl. Somehow, I really doubt it.
 
Chapter 1
It’s crazy how so many people just took off after the outbreak. I guess they figured there was nothing to stay put for. Some went to join family wherever they had it. Some headed for the hills. For the most part, I think people just felt that anywhere must be better than where they were. It’s illogical, really. The eaters were everywhere. But who was I to complain when all that running meant a lot of empty houses for me? Or at least usually empty. Other times, not so much.
As I steered my bike off of the main road and on to a slightly upper-middle class residential street in what was left of Dallas, Texas, I was able to relax a little in my seat. I wasn’t home-free yet, but there were a number of suitable candidates here that I liked. I eased the pedals back to a steady coast and kept my eyes open, sticking to the wide open spaces away from parked cars or any sort of cover. Not that zombies take cover, but humans do, and it’s the humans you have to watch out for.
Other people, when I have to interact with them, never want to talk about it, but there are two schools of thought about people since the big change. The first school says that even the people who survived the outbreak were changed in some way. They became more selfish, less trustworthy. Maybe. There are certainly more things to be afraid of now, but I’m in the other school, the one that says that people didn’t change at all. All that love your neighbor crap wasn’t real. It was just in everyone’s best interest to play along with a certain set of rules that benefited those who played by them. People were nice because they were afraid of what would happen to them if they weren’t. Now that there is something more to fear than not being promoted or not getting invited to join some country club, people act in a way that benefits them the most in these circumstances. Except it doesn’t benefit them at all, and they’re all too stupid or too afraid to see it, so I choose to avoid them when I can.
Fortunately, this street seemed pretty empty. I didn’t have to ride for long before I saw what I was looking for either– a nice two-story house that wasn’t too large. It was light blue with dark trim on the eaves and the shutters. There was even a blue mini-van parked in the driveway. Whoever these people are or were, they definitely liked blue. It wasn’t the color that drew my eye though; it was the second story and the van that interested me.
I left my bike on the front porch, eased my hatchet out of my overstuffed canvas backpack, and walked from one end of the front porch to the other, looking in windows for any signs of life. Seeing none, I walked down the front steps noiselessly, hatchet up and ready. I took a left and then another at the end of the porch and cautiously approached the closed wooden gate that led to the back yard. There would soon be a time for making noise, but this wasn’t it. I eased myself along quietly, lifted the metal latch, and swung the heavy door inward, silently cursing its screeching hinges. I knew better than to try them without oiling them first. I must have been tired. I briefly considered abandoning the house and trying another, but I was still reasonably certain it was empty, so I proceeded cautiously. Thankfully, the first thing I encountered wasn’t an armed homeowner, but a slightly rusted, red tricycle knocked carelessly on its side.
I eased past the trike and walked quickly along the pave stones that led along the side of the house and into the back yard. Everything appeared relatively intact. There was a path from the back fence that led to a small creek running behind the house. It was too small for fish and the water too foul for humans, but perhaps small game animals would come to water there. Inside the yard, there was a tool shed with the lock undone and the door closed. Anything of use was probably taken when the original owners left, if they did, but it was still a good sign.
The only detail in this suburban paradise that gave me pause was a small spot in the yard just off the porch that was obviously the site of many campfires. Bricks had been pulled from the flower bed and used to form a fire ring, and cold gray ash still sat huddled up against them, seeking shelter from the prairie winds.
I completed the formality of knocking several times before breaking out a square of glass on the windowed door frame and letting myself inside. I took in the details of the room quickly, noting the location of the kitchen pantry for later. My prize for the moment, the stairs, could be seen in the mirrors that lined the entryway to the front of the house.
I moved cautiously, announcing my intention to search the home, but as I expected, I got no response. I was fairly confident at this point that no one was home, but I couldn’t be sure until I searched both floors. I glanced out the window again. I had probably an hour of daylight left and much work to do before darkness fell, so I moved as quickly as caution would allow through the bottom floor of the house. I needed to search it twice, once quickly for people or eaters and a second time thoroughly for supplies. If anyone was hiding, I was almost sure that they were upstairs, but I couldn’t afford another mistake like the gate, so I assumed nothing.
After turning over or shifting every piece of furniture large enough to hide behind, under, or in, and calling out to the upstairs one last time, I marched carefully up the steps, my hatchet at the ready. The noises I had purposefully made would have brought zombies from anywhere in the house while I was still close by an exit, so it was only people I was on the lookout for now, and the staircase was the last place I wanted to find them.
I reached the top without any trouble, but I couldn’t let my guard down yet. True, anyone smart would’ve met me at the top of the stairs where they would have held the high ground in a fight, but few people I’ve encountered in the last year are truly deserving of being called smart. Actually, few people I’ve met in the last seventeen years deserved to be called smart. Expecting the worst and stupidest behavior from people might not be especially kind of me, but it’s kept me alive this long.
It took several more minutes to move through the three bedrooms and two bathrooms on the top floor, checking for signs of life. Finally satisfied that the home was empty, I headed back downstairs and out the back door. I needed to get my bike prepped for the evening, secure the back gate so that no one could open it as easily as I had, search downstairs for supplies, and get the stairs secured. The final step would be the fastest, and it’s the reason a two story house is so valuable; furniture piled at the bottom of the steps makes a barricade that eaters can’t get past without making enough noise to raise the dead - or at least to keep me from finding out for sure. Zombies are tireless, but they aren’t cautious or quiet.
After I had completed the other necessary tasks, it was time for the real search to begin. My first stop was the kitchen and what I hoped was a post-apocalyptic suburban goldmine. On the way, I checked the window again. It was getting dark. I had a flashlight, but unless I found new batteries, I was reluctant to use it. I moved quickly to the pantry, held my breath, and pulled open the door. The riches inside were so great, I almost forgot to breathe again. Granola bars, dry cereal, dry fruit, applesauce, and all manner of foods that people with children, and therefore tricycles and minivans, seemingly always keep on hand. The only thing missing was some nice protein like tuna or peanut butter. I could have checked the refrigerator for them, but opening it would only unleash what was certain to be a terrible smell. Some doors are better left closed.
Giddy with my discovery, I loaded my arms with all that I could carry and headed upstairs with my treasure. On impulse, I took a last glance over my shoulder through the kitchen and noticed something I should never have missed – a door. It was right there across from the pantry, and it obviously led to a garage. It should have been one of the first places I checked downstairs, if for no other reason than to look for tools. A house with a tool shed, even an empty one, was likely also to have usable items in their garage.
I contemplated leaving it for the morning, but I would never sleep properly with an unchecked door in the house. Sighing, I put down my buffet, retrieved my hatchet and my flashlight, and eased the door open. I swung the light from one end of the room to the other so quickly that I missed her at first. On my second pass back over the room, my light caught the reflection of a pair of eyes, and I froze. Her hand up to block the light, a young girl somewhere near my own age of seventeen glared back at me.
“It took you long enough to look in here. I was starting to think I was going to have to spend the night in this garage.”
Keeping the light squarely in her eyes, I carefully considered my options.
“You are,” I finally told her as I stepped quickly back and shut the door, scooting a chair from the kitchen in front of it to wedge it shut.
Some doors are better left closed.