So this is how everything ends. After all the running, after all the blood shed involving both the dead and the living this is it. I suppose starving to death in a closet with a single dead man outside isn't the worst way to go in this world. I think I remember some show saying that humans can't survive more than three days without water. The same show said that a human could survive for up to thirty days with enough water, but no food.

Thank God I don't have either food or water. Another day is all I could have at most.

I slumped uncomfortably in the dark, too weak to even shift my position and restore circulation to my left leg. Even when we had our safe place, safe from the dead men, I had terrible dreams. They were the kind of dreams that left me afraid to sleep. I never complained to anyone, I just moved through my days leadenly. When people asked about the dark circles under my eyes I just laughed it off, asking them if they had any tips for beauty sleep in the apocalypse.

The dead man had stopped hammering on the closet door, so at least now dozing was a possibility. But the darkness seemed to elevate my other senses; namely hearing and smell. The rank smell of death that I'd come to know so well enveloped me completely, while every breath the dead man took rattled in my ears. Sometimes it let out a soft grunt or a moan. I think this one had been dead for a while and indoors – it was all shriveled and probably didn't have much fight left. If I'd had any weapon I could probably have killed it. If I wasn't so dehydrated and exhausted I probably could have leapt out of the closet, tackled the dead man and smashed its head against the floor boards. But in my state, none of these things were an option.

Is there any point in struggling to survive? I've worked so hard, so what feels like so little in return. I'm so tired. Even at the best of times all you can hope for a jar of pickled pigs' feet with the seal still intact. It's probably better this way. Going this way would be better than the way my mother died. She died saving my sister Jana and I. In retrospect, maybe she just staved off the inevitable for some months.

There were barely two spaces left in the military evacuation vehicle – already stuffed overcapacity with women and children. People were even clinging to the roof. Luggage, backpacks, and even purses lay strewn on the ground beside the truck, discarded in an attempt to fit the remaining refugees on the last evacuation vehicle. The dead men were closing in on the last three of us left standing outside the truck – I, my mother, and my sister Jana. "Go! Just leave us! We can't leave one of us alone to die with these monsters!" I yelled over the clamour to the guy in military gear doing his best to organize the operation. Jana was silent – she'd always hated conflict, so the end of the world wasn't treating her so well. Then my mother suddenly hugged us more intensely than she had ever hugged us in her entire life. I felt her suddenly suck in a great lungful of air, suppressing a sob.

"Everything is going to be fine – look after one another. I love you with all my heart. This is my second chance to give you life." And before we could stop her, or even knew what was happening, she turned sharply, and without glancing back, she purposefully strode into the swarm of dead men. Two men in military gear pushed Jana and I into the military vehicle, the other passengers holding Jana and I in as our feet dangled outside. I don't remember hearing my mother scream. I hope someone found her, and I hope someone put her down.

I'm wakened suddenly from my half-sleep by a loud thud – the rhythmic rattle of the dead man's breathing interrupted. The closet doors fly open, and a bright light shines into my eyes through the darkness, blinding me. I reach up weakly to shield my eyes. I try to speak, but I can't – I'm too weak and dehydrated. All that I can manage is a small, "Help". The next thing I know, strong arms lift me up, the scent of pine and gasoline washing over me. "I got you, don't worry," says an unfamiliar voice. "Name's Daryl."

I don't see his face. I don't know if he means me harm, or whether he is my saving grace. Either way it doesn't matter – my eyelids flutter closed and I lose myself into darkness.