It's been little over two months now since the outbreak. I've become separated from the group. They're almost certainly all dead. The screaming has ceased but I can still hear them wheezing and scratching about outside. I've been barricaded in this coffee shop store cupboard with nothing but a rusty fridge and a worn-out leather sofa propped between me and certain oblivion. I'm wearily typing this using my own blood as ink, poured into an old discarded typewriter.
I'm definitely losing it. Have I turned? Is this what it should feel like? I'm not sure.
With nothing to do, after just a week in here I've started to scalp the puckered green heads of the undead. I thought it would stop there but I've taken a sinister pleasure in removing, and later gorging on their lovely bulbous pink brains. I must say the result is a very fetching drinking vessel. Perhaps when this has all blown over I can turn these mugs into some sort of successful business venture. What else are we going to do with the all the rotting left-over heads?