1 | I Am a Survivor of the Zombie Apocalypse | ✅

Chapter 1 - Others

My name is Wynne Randall, and I am a survivor of the zombie apocalypse. So far, anyway.

I'm sixteen years old, and I've been alone for nearly eight months. So, I'm kind of going crazy.

As my house was being invaded by live-human looters, days after it all started, I climbed out my upstairs bedroom window, my "emergency backpack" on my back, and a calendar in my hand. I have to know what day it is. I have to. I'm sorry, but I'm just weird like that.

I also brought about ten tubes of toothpaste, and three toothbrushes. It might be the end of the world, but my teeth must be clean. I'm sorry, but it's a must.

And of course I brought tons of those necessary little items that help me with a little monthly visit. Luckily, there're still plenty of them on abandoned store shelves.

And my dad's gun, the Glock 26. Instead of shooting those idiotic, piece-of-scum looters in the face with it, he stuffed it in my hand and told me to run. It was just him and me – my mom had died a couple of years before. I know I'll never see him again. His face has started to fade from my memory, but I remember his hugs, and that's nice on a particularly terrifying night.

Right now I'm holed up in the middle of the woods, trying to decide which way to go next. I have no tent, I just have a large amount of dumb luck that allowed me to find an old shack in the middle of the forest.

My dad, Michael Randall, believed in God. We didn't really go to church or anything, but he believed God exists. After all this crap started, I did pray. I asked God why he killed my dad, why he left me here alone, and why in the heck did he have to come up with a much more creative version of the flood? Now I'm not sure if he does exist. But who knows for sure?

I'm thinking I should steer clear of cities. More zombies, more bad people to try to kill me.

I have a compass, though I'm not sure how to use it. Maybe I'll go west, and get to the Mississippi River, it's not too far from here. I don't know why. But if I have a river to follow, maybe I'll be able to get my bearings and possibly find some nice live people. If there are any left.

I don't even know why I don't just shoot myself in the head and be done. Because, who knows if this mess will ever get cleaned up? No one does. There's no order anymore. I'm going to die eventually, anyway, so what's the point?

I guess it's just that basic, animal instinct to "survive".

It's morning now, just barely. I wish I had a watch. Oh well, at least I have a calendar.

But I don't have food. I've always been one of those people that can eat one meal a day and be fine. But I gotta admit it's starting to catch up with me. I'm ravenous, but too caring or stupid or sentimental to shoot animals and cook them.

So I pack up my backpack, swing it onto my shoulder, drink a little bit of my water supply, and head out, the Glock tucked into the waistband of my pants.

I'm glad I was wearing decent clothes when I made my escape: jeans, tough boots, a long-sleeved shirt, and my most comfortable bra, haha. I have a coat hanging around my waist, the sleeves crisscrossed over my bellybutton.

I trudge through the woods, the sun making a slow arch across the sky. Eventually I come to an interstate, and upon checking my compass I see that it heads north. I decide to follow it for a while, until it gives me a road that goes west.

Vehicles of all shapes and sizes stand gleaming in the sunlight. The leaves on the trees are just starting to turn red and yellow, and according to my calendar it's the middle of October. The air is getting cooler and crisper, the nights colder.