Dec. 21, 2012.
"The world has turned into an obliterated hope of any future. God has given up on us for are betrayals… With this pity, he strikes us against one another. Burning flames echo across the globe. With death, screams and even laughter. The world has turned into a hair salon for the dead. I doubt I will ever get a puppy for Christmas now… Damn, and I was starting to like girls too."
Henry finished off the letter with his infamous signature. A giant E that seems to make every other letter of his name feel like a dot among a snow cone. A chill ran up his back. The room felt frosty from no air conditioning. His glasses swayed on his ears.
Henry sighed, and crumpled the page in his bloody fingers and tossed it on the blue carpet. Who the hell would read my writing anyway? For all I am aware I am the only one left who hasn't got his brain eaten and turned into a ugly freak roaming around the nearest Burger King (Not that Henry wasn't ugly already) Henry suddenly froze. A strange, but dreadful moan flowed through his ears. Please don't be him… he thought.
He walked around his bedroom to the window. He gently pushed the curtain aside with his uncut fingers, and peeked one of his blue eyeballs out onto the street. Oh god no. It was James, who lives next door. Of course, he was a zombie now. But he still wore his tie, and the black gunk and gray skin from being infected didn't really seem like something that would help him get a job.
The zombie looked up from in middle of the street at Henry in the top window. James mouth hung open, and stared at Henry blankly. Finally the dead man spoke, but with a very rash and tiresome voice. (Neither with very good English, but I guess that is what comes for being brainless.)
"W-wungry. Me. Fwood." It begged reaching its arms slightly in the air.
Feeling quite annoyed, Henry reached down and grasped a brick from the pile he savaged during the introductory stages of the plague. He tried to put little effort into opening the window for his hands still ached from earlier before. He opened it slightly; just enough to toss the brick at James. The reddish brick the size if a water bottle, skidded to a halt beside James. Damn, I missed. Last time the dead guy stood out there.
Henry watched with shock, as James reached down and grabbed the brick and started to try to stuff it down his skinny throat. This zombie obviously wasn't the smartest tool in the shed. For the next hour or so, this was Henry's entertainment. It wasn't that bad, it was better than the cooking shows.