~the undead Diaries~ (re-editing!!)

trials

Diary entry two

I know everything seems good. But I just have this sinking feeling that our lives are going to change soon. I don't know how, when, or why, but I know it will.

- Zilla out

His house was completely fortified against any zombie invasion. I like to call it zombie-proof for that very reason. Every window was reinforced with heavy shutters, and the doors were solidly barricaded, making it nearly impossible for any undead creature to gain entry. The garden was meticulously designed, with thorny bushes lining the perimeter to deter any unwanted intruders. Inside, supplies were stocked high—non-perishable food, water, and tools, all organized with military efficiency. It was a fortress built with survival in mind, a place where one could weather any apocalypse unscathed.

Every single window and door in the house is fortified with heavy metal shutters that can slide down securely, providing an extra layer of protection. In the basement, I discovered a well-organized food storage area stocked with all the essentials we might need for a while. However, I know that we can't rely solely on what we have; I need to venture out to gather additional supplies, particularly food and weapons, just in case our stock decreases faster than anticipated. I've taken to calling these excursions "runs," a nod to the adventures I watched in The Walking Dead during my childhood. 

As I prepare for my next run, I remind myself, "We just need to be careful. Mr. Jackson isn't home, and I want to ensure that the area is clear before I dive in." It's crucial to stay vigilant, as I can't afford to let my guard down.

As we approached the front door, a mix of anticipation and dread surged through me. I carefully turned the handle and pushed the door open, the creaking hinges echoing in the stillness of the house. The air inside felt heavy, charged with an unsettling energy, urging us to be cautious. I instructed Brodey to search the main floor, emphasizing the importance of staying near the exit in case he needed to make a quick getaway. 

Meanwhile, I planned to methodically explore the basement, followed by the upstairs, and finally the attic. Though I doubted anything would be hiding in the attic's dusty corners, I reminded myself it was better to be thorough than to leave any stone unturned.

"Did you find anything?" I called out, my voice ringing down the hallway toward Brodey. But my query was met with an eerie silence. "Brodey, this isn't funny! Answer me!" My heart raced as I began descending the staircase, anxiety creeping into my thoughts. I stepped carefully, each tread creaking under my weight, trying to listen for any sign of him.

When I reached the lower level, I moved briskly toward the spot where I expected to find him. What I saw sent a chill down my spine: there he stood, rooted in place, staring at an astounding display—a wall lined with an array of weapons. There were guns of various types, their metal surfaces glinting ominously in the low lighting, practically beckoning to be handled. 

Knives glinted sharply, their blades reflecting fragments of light like warnings, while bullets and cartridges spilled from neglected crates, hinting at a past steeped in violence. Swords, some elegantly crafted and others appearing rusty and worn, hung like trophies of previous battles. The sheer volume and diversity of the armaments left me momentarily stunned as if the very air around us had thickened with the weight of their presence.

"What is all this?" Brodey exclaimed, his eyes wide with wonder as he took in the room around him. I couldn't help but feel a mix of curiosity and apprehension. I had always known that Mr. Jackson was an avid zombie enthusiast, but I had never imagined his obsession would manifest in such a staggering collection. The walls were lined with an array of weapons—everything from crossbows to intricate blades, each one meticulously displayed as if it were a piece of art.