Don't Talk To Strangers | BOOK 1

two

Elle McBriar
July 18th, 4 months and 6 days after the first zombie report

I woke up in a cold sweat again.
The fear gripping at my throat.

I struggled the breath, the anxiety clawing at my skin and making me tremble.

I trained myself not to scream. After waking up with nightmares and crying every night, I learnt it's best not to scream. Noise attracts zombies. I learned that the hard way.

I checked the time on my digital watch, 6am.
I always wake up around this time.

Sighing, I push the light sheet off my body and stand up, craning my neck so I don't hit the roof.

I peered outside, peeking through the tiny crack between a sheet and the van window. Nothing to be seen currently, but it looks hot. The sun is already blazing, I can feel it in the air.

I yanked on a pair of cotton shorts and a grey tank top, tying a thick, camouflage coat around my waist. Even though it's probably 100 degrees outside, I can't risk anything. I sweat my tits off but it's better than nothing.

I tie a coat around my waist because it hides my gun, shields my stomach from any hands that try to grab me and sometimes there's sand storms, and you can never be too careful.

Opening the van door as quietly as I can, I pick up my pack, lugging it over my shoulder.

Today is the day I leave my van behind. It was nice, having somewhere to sleep, but it's too exposed, and the food supply is running out. I re-locate at least once a month, it keeps me sane, having something to do, and it lets me know if there's zombies nearby that need killing.

Tying up my hair with a rubber band, I stuff the blankets, my clothes and other extra necessities I need into a duffel bag.

After the outbreak, I went rifling through my house. Since I couldn't use the stairs to get to my room, I had to use anything I could downstairs.

I took my Dad's old camping pack, I shoved that full of everything I could find in the kitchen cupboards. Water bottles, a couple knives, forks and spoons. I even swiped a small pan to cook food in. I wrapped a butchers knife in an oven mitt and placed that in my bag.

I felt like a thief in my own house.

I bid farewell to my ransacked house, after doing one last checkup to make sure I didn't leave anything behind.

Carrying the duffel bag in my hand, I kept an open eye for anything that could be lurking. I make sure to check behind me every so often. And I feel relief swarm my body when I see nothings there. I feel fearless now. Seeing a zombie is as scary as seeing someone you know in public.

Except I'm killing them...

* * *

Walking through the richer part of Brickwood, I notice less and less cars are piled up on the road. The houses are completely caved in, walls missing, doors missing. It's even scarier than my neighborhood.

I turn into a random driveway, my hand cramping from holding the bag. As I flex out my fingers, a shiny object reflects in my retina, causing me to squint.

What is it?

Looking around cautiously, I walk over to the jeep-truck, seeing a shiny pair of keys sitting in the ignition. Jackpot!

They left their keys, in their car. In a jeep-truck that is bigger than me! A car designed for off roads. It's perfect. I feel excitement bubble over me as I run to the passenger side, assessing everything inside.