I Am Clean

Astraman is still downstairs.  He’s made a friend and they’ve broken the glass in the door.  The wooden slats are too thin for them to get through, but we can hear them – even through flat door itself.

Fed up.  Want to get out.  Anne and I are inflating the airbed and sleeping in the attic tonight with the stairs pulled up.

Fucking fed up.  Anne is having a cry.  Want to join her.  Fucking zombies.  FUCKING FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!

There’s a staricase that leads up to our flat – at the bottom of which is a door.  Humble chipboard with a cheap veneer and frosted glass panels – a guardian portal to our little castle.

Astraman woke up early this morning, and has been hammering on our front door ever since.  Bleary eyed and bleary brained – my first reaction was to let him in and help him.  Anne stopped me as I was pulling the coffee table away from the door.

It’s odd that we grow up with these stereotyped zombies, but when they appear in front of us – we forget all the rules, all the cliches.  He looked to me like a normal person, bloodied and wounded – but normal…. (more…)

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.

(more…)

There’s a bit pack of them trying to get into the house opposite us.  Anne and I haven’t spoken a word for the last half hour in case they hear us.  We’re communicating via laptop keyboard at the moment.

The silly bastard across the road had a stereo on loud.  This is the same twat who races his souped up Astra up and down the road at the dead of night.  It’s off now but the zombies have twigged that there’s someone in there.  At my last peek through the curtains they’d broken the window in his sitting room.

We can’t do anything for him without attracting attention to ourselves.  Anne thinks its cold.  I think its sensible.

Anne called 999 – but it just rang.  One of the zombies is in what looks like riot gear.