“My name is John Doe. I’m twenty four years old. Caucasian. 148 pounds. Tired. Weak. Scared.”

I gritted my teeth together as I gripped onto my shoulder. The pain was excruciating. I could feel the hole in the top of my arm. I fought through heat flashes as I wiped away the blood from my legs. It was all making me nauseous. Sitting in some random person’s house, up against the wall, fighting the urges to vomit all over myself. I could hear them outside, trying to break down the front door or burst through a window. I didn’t have time.

“Listen,” I said into the tape recorder, “I’ve been bit. A walker, day breaker, zombie-whatever the f*** you want to call it. Our chopper went down. I’m part of a rescue team-f***, I don’t have time for details.”

I dropped the recorder as a sharp pain passed through my arm. I heard a bang at the front door. It was the loudest one yet. The groaning and aching hollers from the creatures outside seemed to be getting angrier. I reached down and brought the recorder back up to my mouth.
“I don’t know what to do!” I yelled through my sobs.

“They teach you how to deal with fear, pain, and death in boot camp. But, they don’t teach you how to deal with all three of them at the same time.”

I was crying a lot, trying to ignore the smashes and slams from the front of the house.

“Listen…listen…listen. I have a gun. I have a f***ing gun. One bullet.”

I moved my head to the side and glanced at the pistol on the floor.
“Listen, I don’t want to die. F***…f*** I don’t ever want to die. But, I’m bit. I don’t want to turn into one of those things. Those f***ing monsters.”

I quickly grabbed for the gun at my side as another pain shot through my shoulder. I pushed myself against the wall as I screamed in pain. I had blood and tears all over my face. All over my shirt. All over everything.

“WHY GOD?! WHY?!” I shouted to the ceiling.

“They took my family. I don’t want to be one of them. I-I-I don’t want to be a monster. I don’t want to die. IT’S NOT FAIR, NOTHING IS EVER-”
I coughed. Blood spit out and onto my shirt. I sat back and let it drip down my chin. The screeches and yells at the door had become incredibly loud. My own cries and screams were now covered by the sounds of death trying to break in.

“LISTEN. I have…one bullet,” I said into the recorder in between grunts of pain and agony.

“The pistol…has six chambers. I loaded the bullet into the gun but I spun it. You know?”

I coughed. More blood.

“When I pull the trigger, I don’t know if it’s going to shoot. It’s all up to fate.”

I laughed. I laughed and then I cried.

“If it shoots, I die. If not I turn into…”

I stared at the wall opposite of me. The moaning and groaning, the smashing and slamming; it was all that I could focus on.

“Fate,” I whispered.

“I’m so goddamn scared.”

I dropped the recorder. I stared. My eyes were focused on the wall as I brought the gun up and into my mouth. Fear, pain, death. All of my emotions were let out through one last scream.

I pulled the trigger.