by Carl Hose
That’s the way it is. Get used to sleeping as little as possible. Get used to carrying a gun. Get used to not sitting too long in one place.
Adapt, baby.
I still remember what it was like before the change, when life had some semblance of sanity, before the dead started to rise. It was a different world then, but just as dangerous. Only difference was, you had to worry about the live ones. The rapists, the muggers, the serial killers—all of ’em just as bad as the zombies are now, but we adapted to that world, we can adapt to this one too.
I’ve been thinking about settling down. Don’t know how easy it’ll be, but I’m going to try. I’ll find me a nice little room up high. The dead aren’t very good at stairs. I can rig up some locks and put a couple big bolts on the door. The dead ain’t so strong either. Most of ’em anyway. Pretty sure I’ll be safe. I’ll need to make a few adjustments, but I’ll get used to those too. If you wanna survive these days, that’s what you’ve got to do, and mostly I’m pretty good at it.
There’s just one thing I haven’t gotten used to yet in this new frontier. Don’t know if I ever will. It’s a thing that gets in your head and burrows down deep in your soul. It’s a thing that grabs you by the throat and doesn’t let go. I try to ignore it. I try to think of better things.
I try to adapt, but there’s just no way around that smell.
