George, a transgender man, begins writing in a journal to stave off loneliness as he tries to survive in the zombie apocalypse. After he finds a stash of food, his paranoia only makes his loneliness more intense. When he runs into strangers he taunt...
Marie finished the last sentence of the journal just as darkness enveloped the sky. For the final few pages it had been a race between how fast her eyes could scan each sentence and the fading light.
Even though she knew how the story ended, with his arrival on her beach, she had still wanted to see it through his eyes. And, she had to admit, she enjoyed seeing how he had described her. As a fox. That was a compliment she could take.
She closed the book, feeling the soft leather cover, warm and smooth in her hands, and kissed it.
The journal was a beacon of hope in the doldrums of despair. Not only did it offer knowledge about some group that lived nearby, which she had never interacted with, but it was a literal treasure map.
She could follow the clues within the pages and find the cabin.
Electricity? Running water?
This bag of food was nice, obviously. It was more than she had had in months. But what he had described, well, that was beyond her wildest imagination.
Why had he ever left such a sanctuary? Even knowing his story, she didn't quite understand. First the fool's errand for the phone, and then because he saw shadows moving in the night? If she had been in his shoes, things would have turned out much differently. She would have stood her ground and did whatever she needed to do to keep hold of her home.
That's what she had done when this whole thing started. Her and JJ. They had broken apart furniture to barricade the doors and used disassembled wire shelves to put makeshift bars on the ground floor windows. Their house had become a veritable fortress, impenetrable to the undead.
Unfortunately, they hadn't considered how vicious living humans could become in moments of desperation. The savagery of those on the brink of death. But that had been two years ago. A lifetime ago. Before she had been baptized into this new world with the blood of her only son. This time around she would take human greed into consideration and take extra precautions to keep her home safe.
Her home.
She was already claiming this prize as her own, even as her boat tugged at its mores under the moonlit sky.
But, how could it not be hers? She was the one with the journal afterall. And, he had written that the cabin was closeby. Just off one of the streams that fed into this river. There were other clues too, mentions of roads and driveways. She would figure it out.
Those people pursuing him, those so-called warriors, why on earth would they chase him through a dark forest for one bag of food if they knew that his cabin had been left abandoned and unprotected. That didn't make sense. The only answer was that they didn't know.
He had probably been paranoid. Loneliness and isolation did that to a person.
As she closed her eyes, Marie could almost touch the soft flannel bed sheets. Almost feel the warm running water from a tap. Almost smell the rabbit stew she would make once her traps had been set.
In the morning she would re-skim the journal, searching more carefully for clues, and then she would be off on the search. And she would be successful. There was no doubt in her mind.
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He'd screamed for help, the water filling his mouth and dampening his cries. No one heard him. Not even the birds.
But in the end, it didn't matter. Although the river narrowed and deepened, the current pushing him faster and dangerously close to protruding rocks, George got lucky. He'd never been a strong swimmer, not being one for swimsuits, but his running helped with his endurance. With a few strong strokes he was able to get close enough to the shore to grab at the thick grasses that grew there and to haul himself up on the beach.
George was water-sodden and covered with mud. Blood dripped from the wound on his forehead. But, he was alive.
He wasn't filled with rage so much as disbelief. How could he have been so stupid?
There was a growl behind him, and George inclined his head just enough to see a rotting corpse lumbering out from the treeline. He reached his hand down to his boot, but of course the knife was missing. Swept away and stolen from him.
What else had been lost? Panic invading his chest, he jumped up and patted his pockets.
It was still there! His phone was still there!
George leaned down and picked up a long stick with his left hand and a large stone in his right. With a smile, he threw the stone, hitting the zombie squarely between the eyes. Then he took a confident step forward and finished the job by grasping the stick with both hands and jabbing it forward.
"Enough of this running," George announced to the smashed face at his feet, "I'm going home and standing my ground."
With the zombie-splattered stick still grasped in his fist, George marched back towards his cabin, determined not to let anything get in his way.
