The Last Epistles of John
To whom it may concern,
Day One
I've long forgotten the date. They've been on the streets for months? It might even be getting close to a year. One day it became pragmatic that I lose track. I guess it's irrelevant; I'll be one of them soon enough. I'm not interested in anything as pedestrian as "dying as myself." I'd rather serve as an example to whoever finds this journal. Rather than dating my entries, I'll measure my time in days since I was exposed.
It was from Daisy. I haven't seen her or her parents since the outbreak and I assumed she was eaten. Instead, the little three-year-old ate her parents before breaking out of her home and falling two stories into a pile of bodies. She was bloodied by the glass. She was so little, it took me off guard and I didn't react in time. A few cuts from the glass and a bite on the cheek and here I am, counting down the days until my death.
I'm hoping it's my death. I'm hoping I'm not...what I'll just describe as "awake but locked in."
As I turn, I'll just detail my day-to-day. While I was out, I gathered some military MREs and some ammo. Enough to last me the rest of the month. I have food, running water, and books. It'll be a decent end, all things considered.
John, Day 1
...
To whom it may concern,
Woke up very sore. Not sure if it's because of the change or the struggle with Daisy. I'm paranoid of any random changes to my body and noises outside, but the zombies appear content to leave me alone. I wonder if they know?
To whoever is reading this, know that at least two days can go by since infection before signs start to show. Otherwise, I'm quite comfortable.
John, Day 2
...
To whom it may concern,
I'm still sore. My stool is black. I'm no doctor, but I know it could mean many things: drinking too much Pepto-Bismol, an ulcer, necrotic gastro-intestinal tissue, or turning into a fucking zombie.
Later, I vomited and have remained very nauseous since. My vomit contained something that resembled coffee grounds, another possible sign of an ulcer or my change.
The possibility that I could have a more mundane problem is giving me a mix of hope and anxiety. I could survive, or I could die of an ulcer. I'm still going to bank on the near-certain possibility that I'll be a zombie soon enough.
I'll read Gibbons' Decline and Fall to distract myself. How fitting.
John, Day 3
...
(Page has many spots distorted by water or sweat. The handwriting has a noticeable decline in quality and has increased in size)
To whom it may concern,
I'm running a fever.
(appears to be written later)
Stool black and bloody. Nausea getting worse but I'm forcing food and water down. I think my tastebuds are dying because food is very bland. Might be in my head. hard to focus.
John, Day 5 4
Postscript: Fuck my life.
...
culdnt poop
skin white, vany veiny
hard to focus
(written in different ink, possibly later)
keep throwing up
fingernails falling out
stink
forgot to shower? rotting?
stopped reading too hard
jon day 5
...
(handwriting is large, misaligned, and scrawling)
so hungry
dog bark outside
(larger, less legible, possibly written later)
dog food no problem
j 6
...
(John apparently wrote two more letters despite being illiterate at that point.)