Im not dead.

A fog descends on a farmland so empty. You can hear the dead in the neighboring woods like mice in the walls. Just because you can't see them doesn't mean they aren't there.

Kids playing outside. This isn't the city so the fear isn't as urgent. Most of us here came from the larger cities. I had become a mute for some months. I barely ate and my hair grew out. I kept up with my push ups but the lack of eating made me weak. I had spent so many days on the road. I had seen such fucked up things.

I had done such fucked up things.

I had flashes pf memories. Dead babies. Sex. Sex from before... before things happened.

You know that first heartbreak? Seeing that person's face on nearly every stranger? Feeling that piece of you crumble away with each passing day they don't call you? That soul shattering sob you allow yourself when you are absolutely alone. The darkness that surrounds you even though its a bright, sunny day.

I had all of that. The only thing left was survival. For all the depression I felt and all the sadness that washed over me I still would not allow myself to be bitten or use my last bullet. I found fellow nomads along the way. One established community was more like a cult. It came complete with a chosen god. A person they idolized and answered to. He was a disgusting con-artist who had a day job as a preacher before the shit storm. He was use to manipulating people so I had to hand it to him, you have to survive the only way you know how. Still creeped me the fuck out though. When I left I took a few of the followers with me. They were scared of the outside and it's where I felt the most at home. We kept north. All we did was struggle north. Hoping and wishing it would get better. Started to avoid the big cities. Started to only rummage through houses. Lost a few along the way, some simply found a house they felt was safe enough to make their own.

This phone got buried in my bag. My solar charger got busted long before my phone had stopped working.

This place has a a fire thing that makes a generator go. The generator is loud as shit so they have it encased and as far from The Hovel as possible. Thats what they call it. The Hovel. It is a semi-circle of RVs, trailers and the original standing farmhouse and storage building that were turned into housing. Rain collection everywhere. Rules. No one leader. The goal is to stay alive, pride aside. It feels more like a hippy commune than a regulated establishment. There is some drama but no one is stabbing each other and a new person is rare. We grow our own food and have a tally chart of chores. Gold stars included.

After years of struggle there is some kind of stability.