Don't Talk To Strangers | BOOK 1

eight

Elle McBriar
July 21st, 4 months and 9 days after the first zombie attack

I was casually making breakfast, heating the bread over an open fire, by laying it on a wire wrack. No electricity or power. Meaning no toasters, ovens or fridges. So fire is the only way to cook things. Which is okay I guess because it puts a new meaning too 'wood fired'.

The boys already had a cooler when I met them, so we could keep water, milk and other things cold. Like ointments and creams.

I look outside, seeing the sun begin to rise.

I realise, this is my life now. As I look over at the horizon, it finally dawned on me that this is what the rest of my life looks like. Watching my back every time I walk alone, keeping a loaded gun and knives in my pockets.

Cooking food over an open fire, moving from house to house every few months. It's ridiculous. I'm 17, I should be out having fun, getting drunk and not caring about the time.

But time is everything and nothing. Everyday drags on a little bit longer than the last. It feels like eternity. Even though I have people to talk too, I've only been on Earth for 17 years... I have to be here for at least 60 more.

Eventually, the food will run out. We won't have animals to provide meat, cows or goats to make milk or cheese or yogurt. We won't have factories to produce beans, bread or any other food.

It's only a matter of when. When will our supply run out?

I shake my head, trying to rid the negative thoughts from my head. I pick up the colored toast, placing it on a plate. I made enough for everyone to at least have 3 pieces. I made instant coffee, turning the water hot and taking a teaspoon of coffee grounds.

I've come to terms with the fact that I'll never eat a McDonald's cheeseburger again, or have a coffee from Starbucks, but I don't want to believe that my future consists of the same 3 things.

Eating the same foods, drinking the same drinks. Sleeping in different houses with different beds, that housed different people with different stories. I hate lying in a random bed with rapid thoughts about who used to sleep here.

It haunts me. It could've been my future husband, or a new friend. A serial killer, a father, a brother. Who knows.

But what I do know is that I need to be strong, and get over it. Everybody has suffered a great loss, losing their parents and friends, relying on each other to get through it. We are all we have now, and I'm grateful I'm still alive.

Hearing noises coming from the hall, the kitchen door opens and I smile tiredly, seeing Alex and baby Riley come inside, "It smells like toast and coffee, I couldn't wait." He smiled excitedly, "I made enough toast for 3 pieces, but I'm making more for like sandwiches later."

Alex nodded, taking a seat at the small round, white table. I clipped Riley into his highchair, before grabbing my cup of coffee and taking a sip. "What does he usually eat for breakfast? Baby food, bananas?" Alex shook his head, "Mostly mushy food. Whatever really." I smiled, chopping up the last yellow banana. I put small circular slices on his tray, watching his little fingers grab for them. Alex was making silly faces at Riley, making him giggle.

Then eventually, Gage and Paxton came in, arguing about some bullet thing, "No dude it's easy to make. We just need gun powder, a silicon mold and something to melt the metal with."

I listened in on their conversation while I served up the plates with toast. Usually everyone would just make their own breakfast, but I've been up since early morning and had nothing else to do.