Friday, June 10th, 2011 at 6:59 pm

We called him Astraman. - Leopold Whitehead

Anne is being sick in the bathroom, probably on top of my sick from moments before.

They got the poor bloke from across the street.  He climbed out of a bedroom window on the first floor (not the ground floor – I hate it when people mix those up), but slipped and banged himself hard on the driveway, twisting his ankle right round.  We were willing him to shut up, but he effed and blinded like there was no tomorrow.  The zombies who had been determidly forcing themselves through his living room window turned around and went for him.

I’m uncomfortable writing this, but I couldn’t stop myself watching.  They gnawed pretty half of skin off his body.  Fingers, toes and huge lumps of flesh were just gone.

But that was where they stopped.  He’s still out on his driveway – impossibly twitching and spasoming in a puddle of his own blood.  His eyelids are gone, and he’s staring straight at the sky gurgling to himself.

Anne has her headphones in now as I’m typing this, as we can still hear him even with through the double glazing.  She looks grey, and empty.  I’ll put mine in too – and try to get some sleep.

We called him Astraman, because we didn’t know his name.  We’re realising how few people we actually know around here.  When this is over I’ve going to make a point of getting to know everyone in my street.

Double post in a day – unusual for me.