The Walking Carl: Chapter 8

Dear Diary,

Oh my God, this is the worst day of my life.  Please, please understand how weighty that statement is.  Almost everyone I have ever met is not only dead, but resurrected as a shambling pile of rotting flesh that wants to eat me, I’m barely eking out survival with my parents who mildly hate each other right now and a small group of strangers, the only other person my age was turned into a zombie then shot in the face by my dad and I have had to learn how to shoot people in the brain.  But this, today, is just awful.

I have diarrhea.

I thought I knew suffering.  I thought when my dad was shot and in a coma the world couldn’t get any worse.  I thought when everyone started coming back from the dead, and it was just my mom and me and Shane trying to get out of the city, that the life couldn’t get worse.  I thought when I shot Shane in the face that I had reached the end of the line.  I’m just a kid but I’ve seen and lived so many terrible things already, things that literally no one else my age has had to deal with because they’re all dead.  And then I ate this vacuum-sealed sandwich I found at an abandoned 7-11 because the bread still looked good and I thought it’d be OK. I haven’t had a sandwich in so long.  I just wanted a sandwich.

Mom says I should know to read expiration dates and a sandwich that was made about 6 months ago, even if the bread somehow hasn’t gone moldy, can’t be good.  Well thanks for nothing.  Clearly I know that now.  But how does bread not go moldy for 6 months?  I mean, come on.  I thought if you vacuum sealed stuff it stayed good forever anyway.  It’s like canning, but not, right?  Isn’t it?  This sucks.

So anyway, I feel like the source of the zombie outbreak is somewhere midway between my belly button and my asshole.  It growls and twists every so often and sometimes it feels like I’m trying to give birth to a drawer full of serving forks out of my ass.  I hate it.  I hate everything.  If I get eaten by a zombie because I have to take a crippling shit and can’t run away, I am going to be so mad.  Seriously, what can I do like this?  I can barely walk 5 steps before I have to let loose in this bucket my dad found for me.  Nothing says you’re living the high life like being confined to a tent with a bucket of your own poop.  This has been the extent of my entertainment for the past three days.

No word from anyone on zombie Stephen Hawking but I have to assume he’s still out there.  Yesterday a breeze picked up and I heard a faint robot moan.  I have a bad feeling he’s been collecting my poop when mom goes to empty my bucket.  Speaking of which, mom’s not much of a house keeper these days.  Maybe try to give it a wipe clean or whatever, hmm?

Mr. Herschel says I need to keep drinking a lot and just flush the bug out of my system and I should be fine.  I’d like Mr. Herschel to try a bite of the next sandwich I find and tell me how fine he feels when his butt feels like it’s laced with flaming jet fuel and his stomach is full of fists punching their way out.  Oh well.

Thought nothing would ever be worse than a zombie apocalypse but I was wrong.  There’s always something worse.