Read The Zom Diary for Free Online

completely overgrown by small trees and scrub.  I am upon it so quickly, I don’t have time to consider whether to track around it or not.  I simply part some underbrush and step almost right into the front door.
        It is past noon, and, since I am bushwhacking to town, it will take me longer to get there.  I decide to check the place out, maybe spend the night.  I circle the place once.  Its shape forms an “L”; the long rectangle being the house and the foot, a garage.  The windows are intact and sun bleached drapes hide the interior.  I peer in the garage window and behold a nice looking SUV and an empty spot for another car.
         I pause to consider.  Is anyone home?  Is it worth looking to find out?  I decide to try the front door.  It is locked.  The same is true for the slider out back.  I circle back to the garage and try pulling the door up.  It slides up about two feet, then stops.
          I drop my pack and unshouldered the AK.  I slide under the door, bringing the gun; leaving the pack.  The SUV looks new covered under about an inch of dust.  I take a rag and hesitantly swipe a clear patch on the passenger side window.  Empty.  It looks like the back seats were packed with supplies.  I check the safety bringing the lever down and drawing back the bolt.  I feel better being ready to go at this point, guns blazing.
         Part of my mind says that if anyone were home, they would have come at the sound of the garage door.  Caution wins out, however.  I climb the three wooden steps to the garage door and try the handle.  The handle is locked, but the door has not been shut completely, and it swings open at my cautious pushing.
         The smell is that of a musty basement or old books yellowed with age and spotted with mold.  Must and mold.  I pass the laundry room and a sunny cheerful bathroom.  Walking further, I pass through the kitchen.  It is open to the living room, and that is where I see him/it.
         The recliner is facing the kitchen, and, as I walk in, I see his head turn and his eyes open. He’s sitting there completely still save for his head which follows me.  He is remarkably dead.
         He doesn’t stir or blink his eyes as I bring the rifle to bear. The expression on his face, presumably frozen there, is that of utter sadness.  He raises one hand, palm up, with gaping wrist, and makes a noise that sounds like, “Muh”.
         I put one round through his forehead and instantly regret the noise it makes.  Crap, that thing is loud indoors!  I raise a hand to my ears to check for blood.  They ring as if the bells of a cathedral had struck. No blood.
         I step wide of the seated zombie, now resting with his head blown back and pause to look at a family photo on the mantle.  Yes, that was him.  A quick search tells me that his wife and daughter are not in the house.  Maybe they have made it somewhere safe.  There had been room for two cars in the garage.
         I poke around some and find cans of crab meat that look like they might still be good.  Also some corn and green beans.  I carry them to the garage and open the car door.  I find mostly camping gear and perishable stuff:  rice, boxed Ramen noodles, bottled water.  Mice have chewed into boxes and fouled a lot of it to the point where I don’t want any of it.  Except the water, it is clean.  I drink two bottles.
         I put the cans of crab meat and those of veggies in my backpack and slide the garage door shut on my way out.  I find a tree growing next to the house and climb to the roof.  I walk over to the “L” where the roof angled together and lie down; head on backpack with my AK on my belly.
         The ringing in my ears is passing and the sky is lovely.  It looks clear, so I decide to sleep on the roof for the night safe from the roaming hands of the dead and images of the musty crypt below me.   I am not hungry.  
         I light a