With all this focus on the past, I haven’t even written about our current situation.
Well, Adam is nearly six. Time and dates don’t really matter much these days. Gone are the days where we’re ruled by the calendar. We pretty much focus on night and day, and the seasons. So this will be Adam’s sixth summer we’re coming up to. I’ve found a whetstone at an old fishing store and wrapped it in some newspaper for him when we deem the right day has come. I’ll be able to teach him how to sharpen his knife he uses to dispatch the odd easy to pick off undead.
He’s a tough little sod really. He quickly learnt not to cry, and that I’d fend for him as and when I could. His crying would only attract the dead and that scared him enough to stop. It took him a while to start talking too. Well I don’t talk much at the best of times, and we just didn’t need the attention the unnecessary noise would make anyway. We pretty much relied on whistles, grunts and eye movements to communicate when the bad guys were around for the first few years, until one day I heard his first words.
I’d just driven the sharp end of a crowbar through the brain of a slov that was getting a little too friendly when he piped up in this squeaky, little voice “That’ll fuck em.” Seriously, those were his first words. He must have got that from me. Sounds like the kind of thing I would have muttered a time or two in the past.
Anyways, we’re doing OK. Food is always a hassle. Finding enough to live off that hasn’t spoilt. We can’t stay in one place long enough to grow anything, and most of the shops have been raided by the remaining Living before they too got themselves bitten.
Very rarely we’ll come across other Living. Mostly we steer clear of them. They’re either well set up and very untrusting of others, or don’t have anything and pretty much want to leach off Adam and I. We just do our own thing and give them a wide berth.
We’re making our way back up North for the summer, having spent the last 4 or 5 months in the south not too far from that fated airstrip that thrust us both together on that night.
Tonight it appears we’ve got lodgings in a modest bungalow on the outskirts of some town or other. There’s a stream out the back, and the inhabitants had to be vacated with extreme prejudice, so we’re holed up and secure for another night.
We walk most of the time. The roads are too clogged with abandoned cars and trucks anyway. Besides, the noise of a vehicle gets the undead shambling over from miles around.
Right, best wind this up and secure the doors and windows before we tuck ourselves in bed and snack on a tin of chub. The picture on the front is of a, I think they’re called golden retrievers? Anyway, it has such a glossy coat and looks so happy, I think it can only be good for Adam and I.