No-one likes to call them zombies – no-one likes throwing that word around, as if we’ve been flung from our normal lives into some George A. Romero movie.

They should be “Infected.”

Or “Undead Americans” maybe.  After all I bet most of them still even have passports.

For the second time in a month I’ve been hurt by one of these critters. Luckily not like the first time when I almost became dessert and I was the cherry on top, but the attacks just keep coming and coming. They’re on the streets, they’re in the woods, and there’s even a fat one we’ve called Jeb who has been stuck in a hole for a couple of weeks.  I think the mechanics from Dixon’s are trying to figure out a way to haul him out without him munching on anybody’s forearm.

The point is there’s no break from it now. Arklay may have been safe when we got here and whilst it’s still the safest place any of us can think of, it’s only a matter of time before we start having to bury some of the new friends we’ve made.

The bigwigs at the AES or Deimos don’t seem to be doing anything about it so the best thing we can do is protect our own for as long as we can. At The Eight’s we’ve banded together, to hold the fort before all the pieces collapse.

I still need that job, but staying alive is the mission.  And the mission is what matters.