Nineteenth Entry: Nightfall

I was exhausted, sweaty and covered in sawdust. I'd been working on a barricade big enough to cover the entire gap in the fence for hours, but by the time evening started rolling in, I was only halfway done. I'd emptied one of the half-liter water bottles while working, but I was still thirsty and hungry. Another honey sandwich and a can of soda served as dinner.

Night was falling quickly, and the church grew darker by the minute, so I lit a few of the wall-mounted candles. I wished I had something to cover the windows with, so the light wouldn't be noticed by the walkers. I wished I had a lot of things. Running water. Electricity. Guns. A toothbrush.

I lay on the floor for a while, staring at nothing. On a whim, picked up paper and pencil and decided to sketch out a map of the graveyard.

Night fell, and using my pile of clothes as a bed, I closed my eyes. 

Sleep came swiftly.

Eighteenth Entry: Carpentry Skill Increased By 1

I'd gotten myself a sizable pile of food and drink, but I would have to scavenge more, sooner rather than later. But now, armed with a plethora of tools, I got to work on reinforcing my stronghold.

My first though was simply to nail wooden planks across the doors, sealing it shut. But - as tempting as it was - I couldn't just seal myself in. I would probably have to scavenge several times a week, and there was only one way in or out. Instead, I started measuring out a thick piece of wood, about 6 feet in length, that could be slid into place across the doors like a bar, in case the lock should fail.

All the tools were in good shape, so cutting through the pews was relatively easy work. I was a little worried about the amount of noise I was making, and whether or not it would attract more walkers. I prayed that they would be otherwise occupied while I worked. I finished the bar in about half an hour and carried it over to the door. A pair of broad metal hooks, shaped like half-closed and upturned hands, had already been built into the door for just such a purpose. It took a bit of negotiating to get it to fit, but eventually the bar fell into place. I was confident that the door could withstand anything less than car ramming into it. And even then, it'd have to be a big car.

Satisfied with my handiwork, I sat back and cracked open a can of soda. What next? I had already decided to build a fence around the entire graveyard. The stone fence already in place was certainly sturdy enough, but it was so low that walkers could simply crawl over it. I didn't have anywhere near enough wood to build a fence that big. Not yet. But perhaps I could start building a framework for it. First of all, though, I wanted to plug the big gap in the stone fence.

I could plug it with a couple of abandoned cars to begin with, and then start on an actual, working gate of some sort. No matter what, I had to clear the street of walkers.

I sat down with pencil and paper, and started sketching designs for the fence and gate.

Seventeenth Entry: Looting a Dead Man's House

The caretaker's house was in complete disarray. Granted, it was largely my doing, but even before I'd upended his drawers and emptied his closets, the place had been in a terrible state. Towering stacks of dirty dishes adorned the kitchen counter, alongside various pizza boxes, coffee mugs and cheap paperback novels. The caretaker himself still hung from ceiling like a grisly piñata. I didn't feel right, looting the house while the owner was still in it, even if he was dead. I cut through the noose and winced as the caretaker fell on floor in an undignified heap. I dropped the body outside and made a half-hearted sign of the cross. He was still human, after all, and I figured he would have appreciated it.

Careful not to knock over the leaning tower of dishes (the noise would certainly attract nearby walkers), I searched the kitchen for any foodstuffs still edible and stuffed them into my bag. It was largely bread, rice, oatmeal and a variety of raw vegetables. The fridge held a six-pack of cheap soda and a two-liter bottle of club soda. It wasn't much, but I was grateful for every scrap. I grabbed a small, battery-powered radio, a couple of disposable lighters and five boxes of matches.

A small shed behind the house produced a regular treasure trove of tools and building materials. I left the power tools alone, but made sure to bring a full array of normal ones, along with several dozen boxes of nails and screws in all shapes and sizes, three rolls of duct tape and a pair of safety glasses. With my bag and toolboxes full of supplies, I hurried back to the church. Before closing the doors behind me, I spotted something a little disconcerting. Half a dozen walkers were milling about on the street just beyond the graveyard perimeter. They hadn't spotted me, thank God, but something had drawn them here. Maybe they could smell me.

That thought made an unpleasant shiver crawl down my back.

Sixteenth Entry: Taking Inventory

At the top of the staircase was a door of the same design as the front doors, but with a modern lock. I opened it with another one of the keys. The bell tower lived up to its name. It was very high up, and there was a bell in it. It was very big and probably very loud. A pair of industrial-size earmuffs hung from a nail on the wall.

I'm sure that if I were to look out of the openings in wall, I would be treated to a beautiful view of the city. Complete with a beautiful sunrise and the extermination of the human race. I hurried back down the staircase, closing the door firmly behind me. I didn't need to see that shit.

Halfway down the staircase, I stopped and leaned against the wall with my eyes closed, trying to think. I was scared. Not in that intensely adrenaline-fueled way that makes your hair stand on end, but quietly scared. The rational sort of fear that pointed out that I'd been clever a couple of times, lucky a couple of times, and that I'd come out ahead of the game so far - but sooner or later the dice would come up snake eyes. Statistically, I was going to die soon. Simple as that.

Not a cheery thought.

I could feel the walls closing in, so to speak, but some part of me pushed back. I was a survivor. Fear was irrelevant. The familiar sensation of cold, calculating efficiency flooded my brain, and the Survivor gave Fear the stare-down. Fear blinked first.

The Survivor felt different this time. I had more control. Instead of being led like a puppet on strings, it felt like I was being guided.

I had both weapons and a shelter, but few supplies. My stomach rumbled audibly, so I decided to loot the kitchen. The fridge was empty, but the cupboards held some items of interest. I gathered the whole lot in my arms and dumped them on the table next to the wine and communion wafers. There was a loaf of white bread, a package of raw pasta, various spices and herbs, four apples, a jar of honey, two half-liter bottles of water and plenty of tea and coffee. Not exactly a smorgasbord, but it would keep me going for today. I put some honey on two slices of bread and wolfed them down along with one of the apples and some water.

Water was actually one of my main concerns. The water pressure had disappeared when the power went out, which meant that I had to rely on scavenging bottled water.

The smell of blood reminded me of the dead priest at the front door. I'd have to get him out of the church pretty soon, and then start on making this place into a proper fortress. The pews would provide plenty of wood, but I had no tools to work with. I had to go back to the caretaker's house and scavenge everything I could. Food, tools, anything.

I emptied my bag of clothes onto the floor, grabbed my shovel and headed out. I held my ear to the door, but heard nothing except the distant, muffled sounds of sirens and screaming. Some part of my mind registered that the gunfire had stopped. The rest of my mind chose to ignore it. I cracked open the door and peeked out, just to be sure. No walkers in the vicinity. Good.

Grabbing a piece of his robe not covered in blood, I dragged the dead priest out of the church and looked around for somewhere to dump the body. I didn't fancy having a corpse lying outside the front doors, but just dumping him off to the side didn't seem right either. After a few minutes of looking around, I found what I had hoped for: an empty grave. I dragged over the body and rolled it in.

Fifteenth Entry: Exploring

There was no handle on the white door, only the keyhole of a modern lock. I fished the key ring out of my pocket and tried to unlock it. The first key didn't work, but the second one fit perfectly. I pushed the door open gently and stepped back. The room beyond apparently had no windows, because it was pretty damn dark. I heard no movement, so I carefully stuck my hand around the door frame, feeling around for a light switch. I found one, but pressing it did nothing. The power was out there as well.

I decided to explore the room anyway, despite the darkness, but was suddenly startled by the alarm in my cellphone going off. The soothing tones of Don't Fear The Reaper filled the room. I could appreciate the irony. More than that, I had completely forgotten about my cellphone. There was no signal and the battery was low, but it would serve as an impromptu flashlight.

Holding my cellphone up like a lantern in one hand and the cleaver in the other, I went in. The dim light from my phone didn't reach far, but it was enough to navigate by. The light revealed a small kitchen to the right of the door. Some cupboards, a stove and a small fridge took up most of the space. A door to my left led to a bathroom, and straight ahead was some kind of living room for the priests. A table and four comfortable chairs stood in the middle of the room, with various other pieces of furniture placed around the room. A thick, white carpet covered the floor. No walkers in here.

With a sigh of relief, I walked back into the main chamber, grateful for the warm light of dawn shining through the tall mosaic windows.

That just left the bell tower. I pocketed my phone and held my spade out before me as I walked up the staircase.

Fourteenth Entry: A Priest and a Hard Place

That momentary lapse in concentration almost put an end to me. I didn't hear the groans and shuffling footsteps before it was almost too late, and it was only when the walker was practically on top of me that I opened my eyes and saw it.

For a brief moment, I thought it was a living human being. An old man dressed in the black robes of a priest with pale skin and white hair. If not for the dead eyes, you wouldn't have been able to tell that he was a walker. The eyes and the fact that he tried to eat my face.

The dead priest threw himself at me. I screamed and brought my spade up just in time to stop it from sinking its teeth into me. I pushed it off me and scrambled into the corner of the doorway. The space between the door and the pews was too small to use my spade effectively. The walker lunged again, teeth bared in a vicious snarl, just as my hand closed over the cleaver's handle. I brought it down in a sweeping arc and split the walker's head down the middle. It gave a final gurgle, bloody foam sputtering from its exposed trachea, and fell to the floor in a bloody heap.

I got up on shaking legs and surveyed the church interior. It was very spartan, with plain white walls and a wooden floor trodden thin after many years of use. The main chamber was about 20 paces across and 40 deep, with two rows of dark wooden pews taking up most of the space. At the end of the room stood a podium and a small table with something on it. I couldn't quite make it out. A large wooden cross hung on the far wall. To my right was a staircase that presumably led up to the bell tower.

I couldn't see any walkers, but I wasn't taking any chances. Stepping gingerly over the impromptu barricade, I made my way slowly down the aisle, methodically checking the remaining pews for lurking walkers. I found none, and proceeded to examine the three items on the table: A full bottle of wine without a label on it, a box of communion wafers and a plain silver chalice. The podium was empty, but I spotted a door built to look like part of the wall. It wasn't exactly a hidden door exactly, just designed to be unnoticed.

There was nothing more to see in this room, so that just left the "hidden door" and the bell tower.

Thirteenth Entry: The House of God

I hustled back to the church with the key chain clasped firmly in one hand. Of the four keys that jangled in my hand, only one was the type that matched the lock on the door. It was old, heavy and shaped like a cross. I stuck it into the keyhole with bated breath. It slid in effortlessly. Now, I am by no means a religious man, but I freely admit that I muttered a quick prayer to God, asking him if I could please come into his house. I turned the key with a grimace, expecting the worst.

The lock opened with a surprisingly smooth click. I stopped myself from shouting a hallelujah and settled on jumping up and down a bit with a stupid smile on my face. I pushed the door, and it opened about half an inch before it stuck. Something was blocking the door from the inside. I groaned. This door was seriously testing my patience.

I squared my shoulders, braced my legs, envisioned myself as a charging rhino and pushed the door as hard as I could. For a moment, nothing at all seemed to happen. Then, with infinite slowness, the door began sliding open. I could hear something scrape across the floor on the other side, and as I got the door halfway open there was a sudden, loud crash and the door swung open completely. I stumbled in after it, and it was only the wooden pews piled high just beyond the door that prevented me from falling flat on my face. Someone had tried to barricade themselves by clumsily stacking half a dozen of the heavy wooden pews against the doors. It would probably have kept out the walkers, but not me. No sir.

I closed the door behind me and made sure to lock it. The adrenaline rush of that whole morning had faded, and left me aching, tired, and on the verge of a mental breakdown. I slid to a sitting position and closed my eyes. God, I could really use some breakfast.

Twelfth Entry: Hangman

I briefly considered forcing the doors open with my spade, but dropped the idea almost immediately. I'd probably destroy the lock in the process, and a broken front door would hardly be the best start to my impregnable fortress. I needed to find the key.

I rested my head against the door and rubbed my tired eyes. Where the hell was I going to find this specific key? A spark of inspiration made it through the haze in my head and I gave the door 3 tentative knocks. 'Hello?' I called. 'Anyone home?' After a minute of solid silence, I had to conclude that there was not.

I sighed and looked around at nothing in particular. My eyes fell on the small house at the edge of the graveyard. The small house that looked just like the type of house a graveyard caretaker would live in. If I was lucky, he'd have a key to the church. If I wasn't, the house would be full of walkers and I'd get my face eaten. I hoped for the former.

As I made my way through the forest of grave markers, a thought struck me. This graveyard was the first walker-free place I had seen today. I was literally walking on corpses, but I was safer than I had been all day. I could see several walkers in the distance, milling about aimlessly, but none of them came near me. I climbed over the low stone wall that framed the graveyard and dropped into a small vegetable garden behind the house. I made a mental note to go back and check it later.

Careful not to make too much noise, I tried to peer through a window. I could make out a few vague shapes, but the room was so dark and the windows so dirty that I couldn't see anything else. I went around the house to the front door. The front door was locked, but I had no qualms about breaking this one open. I wedged the head of the spade between the door and its frame, and gave it a hard push. It groaned and twisted, and with a loud, splintering crack it flew open. I jumped back, brandishing the spade and ready to smash any lurking walkers to a bloody pulp. I was met by the sight of a middle-aged man in overalls swinging gently by a noose around his neck.

I'd seen plenty of gruesome deaths during the last couple of hours, but this shocked more so than anything else had. For a religious man to commit suicide (and - according to his beliefs - get sent to hell for all eternity) rather than live in our world... Suffice to say, it gave "hell on earth" a whole new meaning. What can I say, suicide just gets to me.

I tried to pretend that the dead caretaker wasn't there as I rummaged the house. But the house was small, and I kept bumping into him when I had to get past. It sent shivers through me, and they weren't the nice, tingly kind of shivers. I looked through every drawer, closet and cupboard in the house, but I didn't find a single key. I was about to leave, but something popped into my head. It was possible that he didn't have a key for the church. But not to have any keys at all? That wasn't right.

I turned to the groundskeeper and looked him over, half hoping that I didn't find what I suspected. He had plenty of pockets, but only the big one on his chest seemed to have anything in it. I tapped it with my spade, and it made a muffled clinking sound. I sighed. I would have to fish out the keys from a dead man's pocket. I got up on a chair next to him and stuck my hand down the pocket, praying that he wouldn't suddenly come alive and take a chunk out of my arm. My hand touched a cold metal ring, and I quickly pulled whatever it was out and jumped down. It was an iron key-chain with four different keys on it. I did a mental fist-pump and got the fuck out of there.

Eleventh Entry: Deus Ex Machina

I had hoped to outrun the infection - to find shelter somewhere the walkers hadn't shown up yet - but it quickly became clear that I wouldn't be so lucky. The city was in a state of panic. Screams of pain and fear mingled with the moans of the undead. Many tried to defend themselves with whatever they could get their hands on; folding chairs, umbrellas, walking canes. It only delayed the inevitable.

I saw the same scene play out on every street. Small groups of humans (many still in pajamas) armed with improvised weapons, trying to defend themselves from an overwhelming number of walkers. They all got overrun in the end, the walkers swarming over them like ants on fresh roadkill. They would soon rise as new bodies for the walker swarm. Some people made it to their cars. Most did not.

It wasn't long before every street was choked with cars and bodies. I saw a car full of people crash into a score of walkers. Halfway through the group of walkers, the car got stuck. The wheels spun and squealed, sending walker parts flying backwards. Then the engine made a thunk noise and died. Walkers slammed dead fists through the car windows and started pulling themselves inside. It was like one of those cars filled with clowns, but in reverse. And with dead people.

I eventually made it out of the suburbs. There was further between walkers out here, and the houses were gathered in small clusters with large grass areas or small woods between them. I had been running for almost an hour by then, and I was completely exhausted. Adrenaline had kept me going for a while, but I hadn't eaten or drank anything for almost 12 hours. I could only push myself so far, and I desperately needed to find shelter. Just then, the sun crested the horizon behind me, and a flash of gold caught my eye. A golden cross seemed to appear in mid-air a few hundred yards away, reflecting the sun's first golden rays. My first thought was that maybe I had gone crazy. My second thought was that it hardly mattered. It quickly became clear that it was not in fact a magical flying cross, but the top of a church spire.

Dizzy from exhaustion and hunger, I stumbled towards the white stone building. I was lucky not to run into any more walkers, because I'm honestly not sure I could have taken them. I could barely lift my blood-covered spade. The church was in the middle of a graveyard with a chest-high stone wall around it, and the nearest adjacent building was a small house at the edge of the graveyard. It probably belonged to the caretaker. The church was perfect. The walls were made of large stone bricks that could withstand hundreds of walkers almost indefinitely. The windows were too high up for the walkers to reach. The only entrance was a pair of sturdy-looking wooden doors with metal studs on them, and the church tower would be a perfect vantage point.

I sprawled against the doors and tried to push them open. They didn't budge. Damn it.

Tenth Entry: Better Run Through The Jungle

I could feel the Survivor fading back into my subconsciousness as I stepped into the street. The fear returned, and with it came the feeling of being completely overwhelmed. Where should I go? What was happening to the world? How was I going to survive this? My reverie was brought to and abrupt end as the half-devoured corpse of a police officer lurched towards me out of the darkness.

Time seemed to slow down. I could see that large chunks of flesh had been torn out of his chest and neck. Blood - both fresh and old - stained his light blue uniform. His eyes were glazed with death.

With a scream not unlike that of an enraged silverback gorilla, I swung my spade in a wild arc. It hit the walker's head with a resounding bonk, and the force of the blow sent the walker sprawling. Before it could get back to its feet, I thrust the jagged tip of the spade into its neck. It sliced clean through the flesh and sinew, but caught on the bone. The walker thrashed around like a stranded fish, gnashing and snapping its teeth at me. I brought my foot down twice - hard - and the blade finally broke through the thing's spine and sank into the ground. The walker snapped its teeth once as a final salute before it stopped moving entirely.

I had to run. But where? The Survivor surfaced for a moment, outlining my three options.

Option one. I could head downtown. Supplies would surely be abundant there, but so would the walkers. People would almost certainly rush to the hospitals and police stations, turning them into deathtraps.

Option two. A building on the outskirts of the city would mean significantly fewer walkers, but the only nearby supplies would be from gas stations or small, local grocery stores.

Option three. If I left the city entirely, I could find a farmhouse - probably with other survivors - and have plenty of time to barricade the house. There would be virtually no walkers so far from cities, but the same goes for supplies. I would have to travel all the way to the city and back to gather supplies, and I had no means of transport.

After a moment's consideration, I started heading for the outskirts of the city. I ran through a dawn alive with the sounds of death. Screams, sirens and distant, sporadic gunfire could be heard from all directions. I stayed off the main roads whenever possible, using my spade to dispatch any walkers in my way and dodging the groups too numerous to take on by myself.

Ninth Entry: Nerves of Steel

You learn a lot about yourself during an apocalypse. Some people fight bravely to save as many others as they can. Some people see the apocalypse as a chance to get some lootin' done. And some people just curl into a ball and start crying, unable to bear the terrible truth of it all. Something buried deep, deep down in the human psyche is roused, and much of a person's true nature is revealed.

When I realized the extent and deadliness of the walker invasion, that Something woke up. An overwhelming urge to survive followed by a cold, calculating and utterly efficient presence crashed into my mind like a block of steel. I let it take the wheel. The mind-numbing fear didn't disappear, but the Survivor - the steel in me - dismissed it. Fear was irrelevant. Facts mattered.

Data flashed through my mind faster than I could keep up. Did I have any cuts deep enough to be serious? No. Did I have so many small cuts that blood-loss would be a concern? No. Was I infected?

Infected? I hadn't even considered that. The Survivor must know something my conscious mind doesn't.


A quick glance at the blood around the dead walker showed me that I hadn't stepped in its blood. Good. It didn't appear that I had gotten any of its blood in the cuts on my arms and chest. Nothing to do about it now, anyway. Next step.

Was my current location defensible? Glass walls. Nowhere to properly barricade myself. No. I had to leave for a safer location ASAP. That meant travelling clothes. Taking care not to step in any blood, the Survivor led me to the master bedroom where I'd left my bag of clothes. Next step.

The walker's primary means of attack had been its bite, so my clothes needed to be strong. Jeans, a t-shirt and a thick hoodie would have to do for now. The closet produced a pair of expensive hiking boots and an old but sturdy trench coat. I threw my bag over my shoulder and headed out of the room. Next step.

Defending myself. There was sure to be many more walkers out there, so I needed to get hold of a weapon before I could go anywhere. I grabbed a cleaver from the kitchen, and weighed it in my hand. It was heavy enough, and I had no doubts that it could pierce a skull, but getting that close to a walker was risky. It would certainly serve as a last resort, but I needed something bigger. Something heavy enough to knock a walker down, but light enough to transport easily.

Christ. Moose. What had happened to him? Was he even still alive? What about my friends? My family?


After making sure that there were no walkers in the garden, I made my way to a stack of gardening tools Moose had left standing against the shed. A pair of shears, a broom, a saw... and a mean-looking spade. Perfect. I took a few practice swings with it. Perfect length. Perfect weight. A perfect row of wicked-looking teeth cut into the end of the blade. And it made a very satisfying metallic sound when I slid my hand along its edge.

Oh yes. This would do nicely.

Eight Entry: Smoke On The Water

I stumbled through the broken window and into the front yard in a haze, oblivious to the glass shards cutting the soles of my feet. At this point, I noticed three things.

One. I couldn't see the city lights because a pall of black, acrid smoke covered the city. It stung my eyes and I had trouble breathing.

Two. The air was thick with the sound of screams and sirens. Blue and red flashes from further up the street sent mad shadows dancing over the corpses - walking and otherwise - that filled the streets. I saw one of our neighbours - a seven foot heavyweight in his prime - get pulled down by a dozen walking corpses, his screams muffled by a pile of rotting flesh.

Three. I had to get the fuck out of there.

Seventh Entry: Trapped in a Glass Case of Emotion

I wish walkers really did eat brains. If they did, there would only be the one. Think about it.

The dark figure that crashed through my window in a shower of glass shards didn't even try to eat my brains. It went for my face instead. I had only enough time to scream and raise my blanket before me in defense before he was on me and we toppled to the ground in a struggling heap. I'd somehow managed to get the blanket over the maniac's head, and I could see his face outlined against the taut fabric and hear the clack-clack-clack of snapping teeth.

With equal amounts adrenaline and fear I pushed him off me and scampered away on all fours. He was still tangled up in the blanket as I got to my feet. He was grunting and making these weird hissing sounds as he thrashed about on the floor. At this point I was pretty much scared out of my mind. When he suddenly reared to his feet and I saw that he was an it (that is to say, a terrifying parody of a human being with its ribs cracked open and face caked in blood), I sort of blacked out. When I came to, I was standing above the creature, repeatedly smashing its head in with a rather large bunny figurine.

I was covered in tiny nicks and cuts, probably from the glass shards covering the floor. When I came to my senses, I was filled with first horror (holy shit, I just killed this guy), then confusion (wait a second, that thing wasn't a guy) and then right back to horror (something just tried to eat my face).

Sixth Entry: Blackout

I woke up before dawn to a dark and cold house. When I tried turning on the lights, nothing happened. The usual warm floor felt like walking on icy needles. The power must have been out for several hours, because water from the freezer covered the kitchen floor, and a terrible smell - spoiled food, I thought - permeated the house. I tried going back to sleep, but no luck. I decided to watch the sunrise instead. I'd done it often when I was a kid, getting up early to catch the best cartoons and watch the light flood over the city like a wave. It was always quite a sight. I shuffled to the front of the house in nothing but my boxers and a thick blanket, ready to catch some rays.

I stood looking out into the night for a few minutes, before realizing that something was wrong. I couldn't see any of the city lights. Outside the window was a darkness so complete that the only thing I could see was my own ghost-like reflection. I went right up to the glass wall and put my hand against it, trying to see anything outside.

Things went downhill quickly from there.

A fist banged against the glass right in front of my eyes. I gave a frightened jump backwards, tangling my feet in the blanket and fell on my ass. The fist descended again, and a tiny crack snaked along the surface of the glass. My mind raced. A burglar? A passing drunk? Who would try to break into a house in the middle of the night? And who would do it by punching through a glass wall? I scrambled to my feet and clutched the blanket before me. A ball of fear had lodged itself in my stomach, and it was going to stay there for a while.

Fifth Entry: The Tourist

So now you know the where. You know the who. You know the what. The when is 2012. Here comes the sizzle.

It was the beginning of autumn when it started. My parents - with whom my relationship was less than favorable - were in Italy for a couple of weeks, and they had allowed me to take residence in their 2-story villa while they were away. It was a hell of a lot more comfortable than my own tiny apartment, so I jumped at the chance to live in relative luxury, at least for a few weeks. In hindsight, I'd probably have been better off in my apartment. 

As it were, I enjoyed the spacious rooms, gold-covered door handles and fully stocked fridge for all its worth. The house itself was located on a hill overlooking the city, and the glass walls that lined the exterior of the house meant that you could see the entire 45 square miles of it. 

I'd made a friend of their gardener - an Iraqi man of at least 60 - who spoke only a few phrases of Danish. His real name was Abdur Razzaq Suhrawardy Moosalib Ikramullah, but I just called him Moose. He was a tough old man. He'd fought hard to get his family away from the war, and now he was absolutely determined to prove that he was a valuable member of society. 

So he worked 12 hours a day, 7 days a week. I figured he deserved a break, so while I was master of the house, I'd often invite him in for a cold drink. We'd watch the news, and Moose would comment on whatever was going on in the world. He was speaking Arabic, of course, so I couldn't understand anything he said, but he still managed to his point across. Mostly by pointing and saying "Bad!" or "Good!" 

Moose had a way with words. 

It was during one of these sessions that a local report (about how China was buying up the entire world) was interrupted by an emergency news bulletin. A smartly dressed young woman in perfect makeup said that the new strain of bird flu that had been popping up all over the world, had now appeared in Denmark. A police officer described to the camera how a German tourist had come down with a fever after she'd been bitten by some sort of animal. One day she'd wandered into the lobby of the hotel she was staying at, and had violently attacked the first person she ran into, biting and scratching him bloody. He was brought to the nearest hospital where he showed signs of fever, hysteria and dementia. The woman was eventually arrested by the police, though she seemed completely out of her mind. 

"Bad." Moose pointed out, and I was inclined to agree. But it would take more than a tiny little outbreak of bird flu to get me to smart up.

Fourth Entry: Danish Pastry

Unlike most walker invasion protagonists, I don't live in America. I live in Denmark. Let me tell you about Denmark. 

Denmark is to America what a small slice of bread is to a tank covered in bacon, chocolate and lard. That is to say: It's a lot smaller, a lot less obese and with significantly less firepower. In the U.S., you can just walk on down to your local ConsumerMart and buy yourself an arsenal that would make John Rambo blush. They've got more ammo than you can shake a stick at.

That is not the case in Denmark. As a general rule, Danes do not own firearms. We didn't need them. There's almost no crime, no murders, no natural disasters, no strikes, no nothing. In 2011, Denmark was the happiest country in the world. I shit you not. 

As the happiest country in the world, Denmark was also the country least fit to deal with a walker incursion. We had no guns. We had no mountains or deep forests to hide in. It doesn't even get cold enough to freeze the walkers. It's a miracle that I haven't been eaten yet. 

We did have one thing going for us. There are only two places where you can enter Denmark on foot. An easily defensible bridge about 20 yards wide, and the border between Denmark and Germany. Two places where the walker horde could have been held off almost indefinitely. It wasn't, of course. 

But that's been the general theme so far, hasn't it?

Third Entry: Define Your Terms

Before I proceed with all the gory details of my heroic adventures, I feel that I have to explain a few things. The walking dead, for instance. I call them "Walkers." I've heard them called everything from ghouls to zombies to demons, but I prefer walker. It has a nice ring to it.

First of all, there is nothing paranormal about walkers. They aren't minions of the devil or angry spirits risen from the grave to wreak a revenge most sinister. The last reports from the Center for Disease Control - before they stopped broadcasting - was of a virus. It's not airborne (thank God), but if you do become infected (if the virus enters your bloodstream), you're pretty much fucked. There's no cure, no treatment, and it has a 100% mortality rate.

But you don't just drift slowly into death. I wish it was that easy, but it ain't. It begins like a fever. You shake and shiver from both heat and cold. You become lightheaded and tired. Then, without warning, the fever breaks and you think to yourself: Hah, I beat it. I fucking beat it. And you start laughing, because you're not going to die after all! So you laugh. And you keep laughing. You laugh right up to the point where your higher brain functions start to cease. That's when you stop laughing, because you forget what was so funny. You forget where you are and who you are. You forget everything. And then come the spasms. Excruciatingly painful spams wrack your entire body, and you scream and scream until there's no air left in your lungs. And then you die. For a couple of minutes, anyway, before you rise up, ready and eager to feast on human flesh.

Grim stuff, I know. Good news, though! Walkers are really slow and really stupid. 

Second Entry: Human Error

I'm not sure where to start, because I don't actually know where, when or how the walker invasion started. What I do know is that when people finally began to realize what was happening, it was too late to do anything about it.

See, that's been humanity's biggest mistake so far. We chose not to believe. Despite the thousands of eye-witnesses and footage of walkers in broad daylight, humanity scoffed and dismissed it all with a collective wave of their hands. The news spun it as "the biggest hoax in history", and we lapped it up and asked for more.

That's not to say there weren't differing opinions. Countless conspiracy theories and accusations of blame were thrown around like live grenades, but none of them stuck. So we kept on ignoring what was staring us in the face. We kept on pretending that the ever-rising rate of death by having your face eaten by walking corpses was nothing more than a souped up version of the bird flu.

Yeah, we pretty much fucked ourselves from the get-go.

First Entry: Introductions

I can hear them moving around outside. I hope they'll lose interest in me soon. I hope they'll find easier prey. It's not like there's any shortage on people, right?

Right?

My name is Bjorn, and I'm currently in the middle of what is most aptly described as a zombie invasion. I refrain from calling it an apocalypse, because the word "apocalypse" implies that it's the end of the world. Call me an optimist, but I'll stick with my phrasing for the time being. 

I find sleeping difficult at the best of times, and being locked in a bathroom the size of a phone booth - which is my current predicament - doesn't make it any easier. Being surrounded by the walking dead isn't really helping, either. So, instead of sleeping, I've decided to spend the night writing down everything that's happened so far. If the walkers aren't gone by sunrise, I guess I'll have to make a break for it.

Maybe someone will find this journal some day, when this is all over and I'm long dead. Maybe they'll make it mandatory reading in schools. A reliable first hand account of the zombie invasion and all that.

Or maybe it'll just be so much dust in the wind.