I used to need two cups every morning, just to wake up. Now, I hardly sleep. They’re always banging on the walls, the doors, the boards nailed over the windows. If the noise doesn’t keep you awake, the smell will. You’d think after awhile you’d get used to it. You don’t. It just gets worse. Stronger. You’ve smelled rotten meat before. Just imagine being buried under it 24 hours a day for seven months.
We used to leave sometimes, to scrounge for food and supplies. But it wasn’t long before there were too many of them shambling around out there, grabbing at you. Biting. 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 more 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 makes people dangerous and strange. She hasn’t fought back or cried 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. In the mornings, before this all started she’d say, “Wake up, it’s gonna be a beautiful day,” even when it wasn’t. I was always such 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. 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. In this world that’s a very selfish thought to have.
Well, if anyone finds this letter, I hope it means that the living survived the hungry 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 rather than the ones in here with me.
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©2013 by R.k.Kombrinck.
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R.k.Kombrinck is a writer and artist who lives in Cincinnati, Ohio with his wife and two sons. He is a founding cast-member of the popular horror podcast “Night of the Living Podcast.” He enjoys iced-tea (unsweet) and genuinely believes in Sasquatch.
You can find his work online HERE