March 14th, 6 pm

Ate my last can of food today. Been eating dog food the past week. Tried mixing the last package of beef ramen with it. Threw it out after choking down half the sludge. Now, wish I'd kept it. The chicken and vegetables Fido Feast wasn't so bad, but I'm sure that "Beef Delight" I just swallowed down is more closely related to My Little Pony than any cow I've ever met.

I have to get out of this house. Was really caught with my pants down, here. Better than the dorm, but whoever owned this place thought too highly of their pets and not highly enough of disaster preparedenss. Didn't they ever watch those 'in case of earthquake' videos they showed in grade school? Doggy sweaters aplenty, but not a single gauze bandage in the whole place. Even my buddies at the university had a jug or two of water and a flashlight. These guys have a set of glow in the dark collars for one 'Pooky' and a Brite Lite touch lamp.

The neighbor's place will be better. Judging by the outdoor equipment peaking out of the garage, the man of the house may have even been a hunter. Need to close that garage door when I get over and check it out.

March 16th, 8 pm

Had no idea how good stale corn flakes taste when you're this hungry. I found a couple dusty past date travel packs in the back of the cupboard, next to the baking soda and cooking sherry. I wonder if I can live off baking soda? As the good Lord said, "Man does not live on bread alone, but on every box of Arm and Hammer during the undead uprising."

There's the corn flakes, the sherry, and not much else to take. Well, can't forget the mountain of pharmaceuticals. Was surprised they prescribed Prozac to canines, but a dog has every right to be as neurotic as it's pill popping owners. Ms. Baker had four separate prescriptions to different sleep aids, and Mr. Baker's daily doses of panic attack beta blockers would make me as glassy eyed as the stumbling citizens moaning outside.

Good thing they didn't have anything really valuable and heavy. It's not like I could carry a shotgun, gallons of gas, and 2x4's at the same time. Seen people try to do that before. Sure way to die.

Hopefully the basement will turn up a better weapon. All I've got now is a hammer, which does well to pound some nails but doesn't have much range. A nice sharp ax would be nice right now. Maybe the neighbor was a fireman as well as a hunter?

Hope springs eternal.

March 17th, 5:30 pm

Found my new and improved weapon. Like always, it's right under my nose, and like always, dangerous to get to. There's a baseball bat hiding in the back yard, stuck like the Sword of Excalibur in a patch of weeds. The thing brings me back to the good old days before I hit puberty, when a bat and Mrs. Seymour's crab apples gave me unlimited chance to pelt Milo, Mrs. Seymour's mean old tomcat. Hopefully I still have the touch with a wooden slugger. Heading out to grab it now. Wish Eddie was here. That would make this easier. I can hear moans on the wind.

March 17th, 8:30pm

Damn, but that was close. I opened up the back porch door, super-quiet, and tip toed out to the bat. So far, so good. Picked up the bat, and managed to pivot onto one of Pooky's useless chew toys. That, of course, clued in the Baker's very dead next door neighbor, who was in the yard next to me. The rotting corpse turned it's head, and I had to duck down into the stupid weeds to keep out of sight. It hadn't moaned yet, so I thought I was safe.

I wasn't.

It shuffled toward the white picket fence- only thing between me and it. I did what any sensible idiot would do. Crawled right up to the fence. When it got within swing range, I popped up and knocked it's brain loose with a grand slam. The overripe neck snapped, and that was the end of our neighborly conversation.

The bat should do just fine for me.

Heading out tomorrow morn. Plan to pop one of Ms. Baker's finest sleep aids and down the last of the cooking sherry to get a good night's sleep. On an empty stomach, odds are good I'll be hung over tomorrow morning, but I'll chance it. There aren't many of them out there, but the moans are grinding my nerves raw. It's really getting to me. Shows I wasn't made for this. I got kicked out of cub scouts on account of always paying more attention to the Oreos and juice boxes we got at the end of the meeting than the survival lessons during.

Man, I wish I had a Oreo right now...

March 18th, 10:00 AM

Definitely hung over. Still hungry. Very screwed.

This house is empty. All that outdoor equipment? Just fishing gear. Nary a shotgun, rifle, or even bow and arrow. And closing the garage to find that out nearly got me killed.

I had already made it from the Baker's to here. I had set my backpack next to the master bedroom. In celebration, I had eaten the last mini box of cereal. Then I returned downstairs to enter the garage.

The big aluminum door was three quartes closed when I entered. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I realized that the mountain of fishing gear was just that. Not one bullet in sight. Of course, in my frustration, I stopped paying attention to the half open door, but the walker hadn't. It was bad idea to sigh, and an even worse idea to kick a fishing pole. How was I to know that a walker had been shuffling toward the garage already? How was I to know that walkers still have the (rotted) brain capacity to crouch and crawl?

By the time I realized that one of them was inside the fisher's garage with me, it was four feet away, reaching out with it's broken fingernails.

I only turned when it tripped over the former owner's waders, sending it to the floor like the uncoordinated meat sack it is. Scared the hell outta me. Went overboard, turning it's head into a thick stain on the concrete.

It was all I could do to not make another stain, this one down my jeans.

Following a quick dose of Mr. Baker's Propranolol panic attack meds, I checked out the rest of this damn house.

Nothing. Now what am I going to do?

March 19 6:00 PM

I've gotta get out of here. The more I look at this house, the more I realize I'm not the first one to make my way through it. The previous squatter was neater than me, but there is no way Mr. Fisherman would have cleared out every nook and cranny of any foodlike substance. Not even a can of cream of mushroom soup to be had. Just isn't natural.

As I look out the upstairs window, I realize that this neighborhood will be my graveyard, if I let it be. The problem is, I don't know where to go. I made it here under cover of night last time, and Eddie was the one who knew the area. But I can't think about him. He's gone.

Last I heard, all of Knox was under quarantine. I'd rather not set off into the picket line and get myself shot to pieces by the quarantine.

Can't even see where I'm at, have no real idea where I can go. I need to get my bearings. And it looks like the only place taller than the top of the uniform two story houses is in the front yard.

Mr Fisherman must have had a kid. Must have even been a good Dad. With that huge oak out front, who could have refused their son? A five story tree, a treefort, and even a kid sized wooden ladder. That should elevate me just fine above this muck.

March 19th 4:30 PM

Learned two things today. First, a fourth grader's tree fort is too small for a six foot five man. Second, every plan I make seems doomed by Murphy's law.

It was going all going to work perfect. Only two meatsacks in the front yard. Only one between me and the tree fort. Open the door, pop the the moaner one to the skull, and scramble across the wet grass to the tree.

So what, I told myself, if the other moaner saw me? I would only be a minute up to the top of the tree and a minute back down. Hardly enough time to worry about anything other than the great view up top. Right?

If only. I was halfway up the fort's ladder when my foot slipped on one of the rungs. The rung my left hand was on, suddenly holding more weight cracked, all loud like. That left me with one hand hold and a shin just in claw reach of the other moaner, who had taken a keen interest in the flailing foot hanging in front of him.

I kicked the corpse's hand away and made it the rest of the way up the tree, to the fort. Undaunted, the walker just kept right on moaning, which quickly drew the rest the undead in the cul de sac.

I now have a swarm of twenty-five of Muldraugh's concerned citizens all vying for their own little piece of me. My bat fell out of my pack and sits underneath their feet. The backpack is still full of meds and completely empty of food. I still have this journal and a pen, for what it's worth.

I guess I did learn one other thing today. The tree has a great view- of even more suburban hell, each with proud dead homeowners meandering down the streets, toward my tree.

March 20th, 9:48 am

Shit. Shit shit shit. I don't know what's worse. Sitting in this cramped playroom, the ever increasing mass of open mouths below me, or the the Mexican gang-banger rap.

Spent the night up here. Didn't really have a choice, given that the entire homeowner's association is heading this way. Must be a hundred of them closing in. I don't dare move. Don't want to give the slavering meatsacks any more incentive to pile on top of one another and drag me down. Their moaning and groaning is seriously getting to me. It's like listening to a sea filled with piranhas, every hour bringing the tide lapping closer to my toes.

I could've dosed myself some more of Mrs. Baker's never ending supply of sleep aids, but I don't think they would've helped. Besides, the thought of rolling over in my sleep, out of the fort and into the crowd of moaners scared scared me stiff. If my roommate had made it here alive, we could've taken the night in shifts. 'Course, Eddie's moaner munchies now, so that's a no go. I didn't think I could get more keyed up, until I heard the music start up about fifteen minutes ago.

I can see the car where the Latino bass is blasting from now. A huge black suburban, complete with tinted windows and drive-by ready moonroof, making it's way into the neighborhood.

March 20th, 10:03 am

Man, I am so screwed. That monstrous vehicle just blew past. I was peaking out when they did. If the huge crowd of meatsacks isn't enough of a giveaway that something living is stuck up here, my bright blonde head would do the trick.

That suburban's got some woofers. No idea what they say in those songs, but it's gangland execution type music. Everyone I know that listens to these D-grade tracks was either a chubby twelve year old Latino getting in touch with his culture or one of the serious gang bangers who hung on the side streets. Which of those would've had the guns, guts, and cajones to survive? Not the one who studied trigonometry, I can tell you that.

I don't know what even an hombre like that would be doing here. This suburb is known for it's Christmas displays more than drug wars. If they're setting down in the neighborhood, I might as well kill myself right now. Those types don't play nice.

They're going to kill me. So dead.

March 20th, 11:16 am

The truck drove real slow when it came by this time. I don't know what they're playing at. Probably trying to see if someone was stupid enough to actually think that a treehouse could protect them. 'Course, it can't. Can't protect me from the moaners. Can't protect me from 9mm slugs, either.

I hoped that that I would make it to the end of this journal, maybe even fill another. Now it looks like I won't make it to the end of the page.

March 23rd, 4:00 pm

That didn't go as expected. Last time I wrote, I was ready to kiss the world goodbye.

The suburban blasting the rap drove by twice more, slower each time. I was too terrified out of my mind to realize that didn't make a lick of sense.

The last time it passed, almost all the moaners followed. Turns out they like the thought of Mexican food just as much as much as American. There were only five or six stragglers, stuck on fences or tripping over their own broken feet in the yard below.

I didn't notice this. My thoughts had turned to my brother and parents. They're all gone, probably. Realized that I'd be following them soon enough. Tried to remember the sinner's prayer. Only got halfway. Knowing I was the last DeWitt on the face of the planet hadn't really gotten to me until that moment, when I realized that taking a full bottle of Mr. Baker's happy meds would put an end to our family line. Holding that orange bottle, I almost did it.

Then I heard a tinny bell ring under the distant thump of angry Latinos.

It wasn't an alarm clock bell, or a kitchen timer bell. When I peaked up from my tree, I found out that the bell was attached to vanilla creme handlebars. Attached to the bars was a picnic basket with an ancient dog poking out. Behind the dog followed the rest of a creme two seater bicycle. On the front seat of the bicycle was a grizzled, pot bellied old man, the kind of guy who had seen the Tet Offensive and too many cheap beers in his long passed hay-day.

The dog barked at me.

The owner had by then gotten off the bike, and pulled out a mean sawed off shotgun from his rucksack. He blasted one of the meatsacks face away, and blasted the guts out backwards from another.

I had scrambled down, picked up my thankfully unbroken slugger and dispatched another of the moaners. It was about then the insanity of the situation hit me.

I wondered if I'd actually taken the meds, and this was some sort of drug induced hallucination. My brother told me once about trying LSD. It sounded similar to this.

The man yelled something at me, then motioned to the second seat of the bicycle. The dog barked at me again, then at one of the walkers who was heading toward the cycle. It's head disappeared in a blood mist, and I decided to get onto the back of the bike and go with this man, his dog, and his shotgun.

Now I sit at the man's campfire. The mangy dog, unholy union of a schnauzer and a bulldog, yawns indulgently. The man scratches the dog's belly, and yawns himself. My savior's name is Dave Calhoun. Crazy Old Man Dave.