I never know exactly how I should start things like this. I know I shouldn’t have to use any sort of set formula for it – I’m writing on napkins and gross old paper, for goodness’ sake – but I can’t bear not using some sort of format. Not that anyone is ever going to read it or take it with a minute bit of seriousness, but over the past year I’ve found that writing things down has become very helpful.

The virus has spread way beyond epidemic levels. For a year, I honestly thought I was the only survivor. When it was first discovered and editorialized I thought maybe it would turn out to be simply a more severe form of sleeping virus, or possibly rabies that had morphed from its usual non-aggressive form found in humans. All it would take is a simple mutation of it, but then again, human-to-human transmission is really rare in the first place. Dysarthria could account for the lack of working speech, but that’s got to be tied to something. Leprosy has been linked to fears of zombies for a while, but aside from the necrosis and gait, it wouldn’t explain the behavior of the infected at all.

All in all? I’m stumped. But if the big important scientists back in civilization couldn’t find the answers, my outlook as a failed medical student is pretty bleak here.

I made a boat to cross into Arklay Island a week or so ago (I am losing track of the days) after hearing some good things about the place, most importantly a working hospital. That’s where I am at the moment. It’s being used as a free shelter, and some very helpful women have been letting myself and many others stay here free of charge. It threw me for a loop when I first arrived, because hospitality? In THIS world? It has to be a trap, right? But it seems okay so far. My eyes and all of my organs are still intact. I was choked, but that’s an entirely different story altogether.

A story I actually kind of feel like telling, for some reason. Why, piece of discarded burger wrapper? What is this, a medical journal or a whiny teenage diary?

Eh… I’ll go with both. It’s not like I’m sending this in for review.

I met someone – a man, Scottish accent, said his name was Sykes. I can’t tell whether he likes me or hates my guts, but I have a very bad history with being around people in general. I can tell he’s injured, I can tell that physically he is struggling but I am not ever going to be used to dealing with emotions. Neither mine nor other peoples’. So I can’t ever be sure whether he is going to grope me or smack me or something. He seems kind, but troubled and a bit unpredictable, so I am trying to keep my distance at least a little until I can figure him out. He was my first kiss, too. First kiss at 25 years, dear old discarded burger wrapper. And I didn’t even want it. Aren’t you proud?

Anyway.

Water is getting difficult to find. I’m actually becoming accustomed to how strong the moonshine is and how easy it is to obtain, which should be concerning me. It’s not, though. It’s relaxing to just drink and not worry about being torn apart by rotting corpses where I stand. Maybe I’ve finally found some sort of vice that doesn’t involve ingesting helium and laughing at my voice.

This is a horrible way to end whatever this may be, so… dream on, dear little burger wrapper.