The skies have been black all summer. Only the rain is the same.
Since the dead have been back, I’ve been feeling tired.
I do less than before although Dad says it’s difficult to do less than nothing.
It’s like the dead have bought back a disease. And it’s catching.
I’m sure I have the disease of the dead.
That is why I write. Why I must spread what I know as far and wide as I am able.
That is why I never stop.
If I did, my brain would stop working. I know it would. I would just sit around like the others. No telly. No books. No games.
Dad. He just sits there and grumbles and then he’ll get hungry or thirsty.
Only then does he get up and go out.
He comes back with tins from the corner shop most of the time.
But one day the shop will close. A lot of them already have.
Children run the big supermarket round the block and the local chippy.
They even run the local newspaper and the radio station…
Shops, offices, doctors, dentists, restaurants, pubs, all deserted.
I should be at school, but all the schools are closed.
Dad leaves the door wide open now. Everyone does. No-one locks anything.
He also wanders into things…He’s just fallen over a chair in the dining room.
His face is scratched and cut and Mum is sniffing around him because the wound is fresh.
It gives me the creeps when she does that.
It’s why I carry my knife.
Ever vigilant in this new world among the dead.
It’s how we all must be.
It’s why I must go.
But…it’s also why I must return, to share what I know, to find a way through…
It’s not too late for us…we can rise.
We can defeat The Party of the Dead together.