A little over two years. That’s how long it’s been, or at least that’s what I’ve been told. I’m sure to everyone else it feels like hell of a lot longer. Somehow I survived for two years, going from some college student to a runner. Though I guess before the outbreak I was a runner. And run I did, from my problems at home, from the screams of people getting torn apart when the outbreak happened, even ran from Arklay. Though I find myself returning after a few months, once more. Perhaps my fate is tied to the town, to the friends I’ve made there and the ones that I’ve lost.

Writing in this old journal of mine under the night sky, resting in the side car of my bike, I wonder if when I return I’ll find out more people have lost their lives. More friends that I could’ve saved if I didn’t run away again. Though that’s my job, running to towns and cities in search of supplies. Though each town or city I hit, the supplies are getting less and less while the danger grows more and more. I don’t know how many times I’ve been shot at or manage to escape the grasp of a undead by the skin of my teeth, but my luck is running out. I gain more and more scars everyday and I feel my body failing me sometimes. I don’t know if there is something wrong with me or if I just pushed my body past it’s limit.

Maybe that’s why I’m returning to Arklay, to sleep soundly in a bed and let other people try to protect the borders. Friends that I haven’t seen in a while will be a welcoming sight compared to the usual horrors I face. The atrocities that fellow humans commit to one another. I don’t know how much more I can take. Hopefully Arklay is still standing, for if it has fallen, I feel my sanity will follow it closely. One bullet is all I would need