hunger radiating from my belly outward to all my parts. I thought for a while that I could actually take food, but one bite of an orange from a grove tree taught me better. It made me retch and a ghastly trembling took hold of me so that I thought my stomach would come up my throat into my mouth and be expelled onto the ground.
I know what the hunger means. I know what would satisfy it. And before I ever do that, I would rather stand before the army snipers and point to my head.
If I could sleep, I might dream of life the way it was before and for a while escape myself. As it is I can barely keep a flicker of hope burning as the hours lumber by, trickles of sand in an hourglass.
As I sit and watch, the fires burn down. The dark creeps closer on padded feet. The moon rides high over the world. At least I have an expectation of tomorrow crossing the long bridge over the aqua waters. Halfway to Key West.
I miss, and this is the truth, I miss everything . I curse this new death and I can't tell you how much I wish I could blot these last days out, make them vanish, and return to my little dark house where my only trouble was to ration the milk until help arrived.
June 9
No one accosted me today. There was cloud cover and that helped the problem of the heat. This morning there were blisters on the backs of my hands. I broke them open with a needle tip from a palmetto frond. I mashed the skin flat again and wondered where I would ever find gloves before the blisters turned to festering, oozing sores.
In Key West I have to do something. I've already had some looks from people on the road because I am dressed in long pants and a long sleeved shirt. In June. In Florida. Talk about being conspicuous. But I don't let their curious looks bother me. I am beyond the worry of social ambiguities. I don't look right? I may be mad? I want to shout at them: Fuck this shit, this dead dead shit! You'll be like me before too long!
Just before dawn I traveled far into the palmetto and grassland hunting for zombies. I found a half dozen lying on their backs, mesmerized by the moonshine. I shook them. I brought out my pad and wrote, CAN YOU READ THIS?
They tore at the paper and tried to stuff it into their mouths. They were mindless creatures. And hungry, always ravenous. But they all know I'm one of them, I don't know how. I can fool humans so far. But not another walking dead man. Can they smell me, do they know from my eyes, can they sense my blood lies cold in my veins? I don't know. I don't want to know. Fuck knowing how they
recognize me.
I came back to the highway in time for sunrise and moved into the stream of travelers south. Keeping my distance. Keeping my eyes down before me, watching the gravel roadbed beneath my feet.
I will go out again tonight hunting someone who might read my message. I've made it to Marathon Key. There are a few lights, a few houses boarded against intruders. The crowds pass north and south; it seems neither stream of people know what they're doing, they just feel safe with the military presence on the roads to protect them, and after all, they're in the open, breathing fresh air, doing something more than lying in wait behind walls, hoping for a change, hoping the television will come on again and play their favorite shows.
I despair. But it could change, couldn't it? Maybe I'll find a friend, someone to talk with, someone to commiserate about what it all means. It's what keeps me going.
I will steal gloves tomorrow.
Tonight I'll wrap bandages against the seepage behind my knees. And I'1l wash my clothes and my body in warm Gulf waters.
The flies are thick. They love me. The ants and black gnats love me.
All the little hungry things love me .
June 10
Key West! I've made it this far without detection. I think I'm beginning to smell something terrible. Despite my bath, my washed clothes, the deodorant and aftershave, I notice people shying from me. Not in any rude noticeable way, just drifting
I know what the hunger means. I know what would satisfy it. And before I ever do that, I would rather stand before the army snipers and point to my head.
If I could sleep, I might dream of life the way it was before and for a while escape myself. As it is I can barely keep a flicker of hope burning as the hours lumber by, trickles of sand in an hourglass.
As I sit and watch, the fires burn down. The dark creeps closer on padded feet. The moon rides high over the world. At least I have an expectation of tomorrow crossing the long bridge over the aqua waters. Halfway to Key West.
I miss, and this is the truth, I miss everything . I curse this new death and I can't tell you how much I wish I could blot these last days out, make them vanish, and return to my little dark house where my only trouble was to ration the milk until help arrived.
June 9
No one accosted me today. There was cloud cover and that helped the problem of the heat. This morning there were blisters on the backs of my hands. I broke them open with a needle tip from a palmetto frond. I mashed the skin flat again and wondered where I would ever find gloves before the blisters turned to festering, oozing sores.
In Key West I have to do something. I've already had some looks from people on the road because I am dressed in long pants and a long sleeved shirt. In June. In Florida. Talk about being conspicuous. But I don't let their curious looks bother me. I am beyond the worry of social ambiguities. I don't look right? I may be mad? I want to shout at them: Fuck this shit, this dead dead shit! You'll be like me before too long!
Just before dawn I traveled far into the palmetto and grassland hunting for zombies. I found a half dozen lying on their backs, mesmerized by the moonshine. I shook them. I brought out my pad and wrote, CAN YOU READ THIS?
They tore at the paper and tried to stuff it into their mouths. They were mindless creatures. And hungry, always ravenous. But they all know I'm one of them, I don't know how. I can fool humans so far. But not another walking dead man. Can they smell me, do they know from my eyes, can they sense my blood lies cold in my veins? I don't know. I don't want to know. Fuck knowing how they
recognize me.
I came back to the highway in time for sunrise and moved into the stream of travelers south. Keeping my distance. Keeping my eyes down before me, watching the gravel roadbed beneath my feet.
I will go out again tonight hunting someone who might read my message. I've made it to Marathon Key. There are a few lights, a few houses boarded against intruders. The crowds pass north and south; it seems neither stream of people know what they're doing, they just feel safe with the military presence on the roads to protect them, and after all, they're in the open, breathing fresh air, doing something more than lying in wait behind walls, hoping for a change, hoping the television will come on again and play their favorite shows.
I despair. But it could change, couldn't it? Maybe I'll find a friend, someone to talk with, someone to commiserate about what it all means. It's what keeps me going.
I will steal gloves tomorrow.
Tonight I'll wrap bandages against the seepage behind my knees. And I'1l wash my clothes and my body in warm Gulf waters.
The flies are thick. They love me. The ants and black gnats love me.
All the little hungry things love me .
June 10
Key West! I've made it this far without detection. I think I'm beginning to smell something terrible. Despite my bath, my washed clothes, the deodorant and aftershave, I notice people shying from me. Not in any rude noticeable way, just drifting
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