Every channel on TV was freaking out about it. An epidemic had spread. The dead had risen and the living were in danger. Everyone needed to pack their bags and leave for nearest major city, where the military would keep us safe.
Atlanta wasn't what they promised. Flesh covered the streets and blood decorated the buildings. The military had been taken down. From there, those who managed to escape Atlanta were forced into the world, living off of what they had in their pockets.
That was almost a year ago.
And where am I now?
I'm not exactly sure. But I'm alive--for now. The letters and entries you're about to read are the documentation of how my small group of people survived the world that was taken over by the dead.
P.S. -- Forgive me for going on about a man named Rick Grimes, but he was my savior--the reason I didn't give in to death.
A folded letter found at the back of the journal.
Found on page one, beside a flattened, dried out flower.
Pages three to five.
Pages six to eight.
Pages nine to eleven. The bottom of page eleven consists of a sketch of the moon and trees below it.
Pages twelve to fifteen.
Pages sixteen to twenty. "Profiles" are incomplete in this entry.
Pages twenty-one to twenty-five.
Pages twenty-six to thirty-one.