The further south I get, the stronger the urge to get there becomes. I don’t know what is pulling me there, but I think it has something to do with the way I can hear the deaders in my head.
I don’t like it very much because it is like somebody making me do something and it not being because I want to do it myself, but I keep going anyway.
I went the long way around a town today because Dave Eckleston told me the streets of the town were full of deaders, including himself.
It was a good trip out of the way though because I got to see an old, stone building with a cross sticking out of the pointy roof, and all of the windows were made of coloured glass with pictures of people and animals and they all wore blankets. The people that is, not the animals.
There was just one deader in there and he wore black clothes with the remains of a stiff white collar around his neck, and he asked for my forgiveness as he lumbered towards me. And as I raised my knife to sink it into his skull he blessed me, which I think is a good thing and means I’ll have good luck in the future.
I hope that’s true because it means I might find some more cans of dog soon.