I’ve been in this house since Krokodil started spreading. It’s not even my house. I don’t know where to go. It’s disgusting inside—there’s flies buzzing everywhere, the smell is absolutely foul. Outside isn’t too different. The sky is always sad, it storms a lot more. Dirt is piled up on bodies, there’s maggots and weird bugs I’d never seen before everything seemed vacant. The parking lots and streets are filled with cars and vehicles of all sorts, but it’s quiet. And sad. Everything is so sad. This house is the only house on this road, Green Park. I haven’t seen anyone. Everyone in Bath is dead. Everyone besides the American population is dead. I’m running out of food and I need to find some. I’m off to check the West Kingsmead houses. They’re the only houses I haven’t checked yet.
