Day 1 - Four months in

It’s been four months since everything went to hell.
Four months since Janice was bitten, since Ted bolted out the door yapping his head off, since Liverpool docks turned into… whatever it is now.

I’m Keith Wignall. Used to live a quiet life down on Eastbourne Road, cutting keys at Stanley’s the lawn mower museum. Janice worked reception at the Town Hall. We worried about bills, the weather, and whether Ted had chewed the skirting board again. Normal stuff.

Now I’m sat in the back office of The George pub, dusty, damp, and stinking of stale beer. But it’s safe. There’s a big metal door I can lock, and I found a stack of old notepads and some half-dead pens. I thought maybe I’d write things down. For me in the hope I can somehow make sense of it all, or for anyone else who finds this after.

Sometimes I laugh at the madness, last week I saw a zombie trip over a traffic cone and face-plant into a Greggs window. Funniest thing I’ve ever seen. But most nights, I sit here staring at the door, terrified it’ll bang open. Terrified it’ll be Janice.

If you’re reading this, if anyone’s out there, this is my diary. My record of the end of the world.
Day one of writing. Month four of surviving.

Keith