I remember coffee.
I used to need two cups every morning, just to wake up. Now,I hardly sleep. I’ve got them to keep me awake. Always banging on the walls, on the doors, on the boards nailed over the windows. If the noise doesn’t keep you awake, their smell will. You’d think after awhile you’d get used to it. You don’t. It just gets worse. Stronger. You’ve probably smelled rotten meat before. Just imagine being buried under it 24 hours a day for seven months.
That’s how long we’ve been here.
We used to leave sometimes, to scrounge for food,supplies. But it wasn’t long before there were too many of them shambling around, grabbing at you, biting, moaning. We lost nine people, including Carrie, before we realized it was too dangerous to leave.
God! I would give anything for a cup of that shitty instant coffee she used to make. I thought it tasted like garbage. Now that I’ve eaten actual garbage . . .and rat and. . .well, never mind. Let’s just say I miss my morning coffee. I’d give about anything for one more cup. One sip.
Sounds like Michael and Brad just took Lindsay in the other room. I won’t tell you what goes on in there. After a month or two, boredom gets dangerous and people turn mean. She hasn’t fought back in a long time. Not since Del, Mike B. and Clutch died. And by, “died” I mean, were killed. By the rest of us. Now she only has to deal with two guys taking her in the room, and we have enough spoiling meat to last us a while longer.
Carrie thought this thing would blow over. She was an optimist. She would wake me up and say, “Good morning Sunshine!” even though I was a grump before I’d had my coffee. She held on to her hope till the moment they tore her guts out in the alley behind the grocery store. I tried to go back and help her. Clutch dragged me back to our building. Saved my life. Just writing that sentence makes me want to laugh. Sometimes I get silly in my head when I think about the way things are out there and the way they are in here.Not much difference anymore, really. I guess I’m actually glad that Carrie isn’t here to see this. I miss her though. I wish it would’ve been me. Strangely, somehow that seems more selfish than it sounds.
Well, if anyone finds this letter, I hope it means that the living survived the living dead. Maybe you’re reading this over a cup of coffee. I doubt it. Carrie was the optimist, not me. I’m going to go downstairs, while the others are busy, and pry the boards and nails away from the door and open it. If somebody’s going to eat me, I think I’d rather it be the monsters outside, instead of the monsters in here with me.