Day 73.
Or maybe it’s 74. I lost track somewhere between running from a burning gas station and hiding in a grocery store freezer with nothing but a half-dead flashlight and a pocketknife.

Name’s Max. Eighteen years old. Used to live in a suburb where the scariest thing was a math test or my dad finding out I skipped football practice. Now? Now the streets are graves, and silence is never a good sign.

They don’t call them zombies on the news anymore — not that there’s much news left. “The Infected,” “The Changed,” whatever makes it sound less real. But they’re real. And they’re fast. And they don’t care if you’re a kid or a grown-up — they’ll tear through you like paper if you hesitate.

I learned that the hard way.

I remember the first night we had to leave home. Mom wrapped duct tape around my wrists and said, “If one of them grabs you, don’t let them break skin.” I didn’t understand then. I do now. She didn’t make it past the highway checkpoint.

Now it’s just me and my brother’s old backpack. I talk to myself sometimes — not because I’m crazy, I swear — but because the quiet feels heavier than the gun I carry. I don’t even know where I’m going anymore. I just keep walking. North, maybe. Somewhere colder. I heard they freeze up in the cold.

Hope that’s true.