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Log entry 61

A horde of zombies has gathered outside the door and started ramming it. Those boards I used to reinforce it—tonight we'll see if they hold.
A rotten stench is coming from the storage lockers. Going through them one by one—throwing away more than I'm keeping.
About a week's worth of rations left. The plan needs to be tightened up.
All the lights went out. Lighting the candles brought a sense of calm instead.
Been burning with fever for days now, going from cold to hot. Can barely hold the pen anymore.
Checked the Storage—won't last through this week. Need to stock up on two more cases of canned food next time.
Cleared out two more bags of gnawed items. I need to block their paths first, or no matter how much I stockpile, it'll all be for nothing.
D7. Both sides have made it a full week. Last round he was the one who said it; this time it's my turn.
D7. There was laughter in her voice. Day seven of this round, different from last time.
Days of constant pounding have stopped. I'm still alive, and the door is still holding.
Denser than last time. This wave won't pass in just one night.
Everything in the entire city seems to be heading this way. There's nothing else to do today but guard the doors and windows.
Footsteps in the distance merge into one continuous sound. They're coming again.
Haven't truly slept in ages. Can't lift my hand, can't grip the pen.
Her knocking came right on time. This time, I responded to her first.
His call for help is still sitting on my screen. Last round he was the one who lowered the basket—this time I remembered it before he did.
I confronted the man on the top floor face to face. This time I didn't hide behind the door.
I didn't open the door. His footsteps disappeared at the end of the hallway.
I passed the water through the door crack. He didn't come knocking on this door last round, but this time he even said thank you.
I warned the man on the top floor through the hallway. He put down his things.
I've been running a fever since morning. Can't eat, can't stand for long. All I can do now is endure.
In the footage from the drone, the hot spot outside the city has grown bigger again.
Inside isn't much warmer than outside anymore. My fingers lost all feeling long ago. Next time, heat comes first.
It stopped in the morning. The rest moved south. The door is still holding.
It turned freezing cold overnight. The heating is broken, so I gathered all the burnables and covers in one place.
It warmed up a few degrees today. My fingers can finally bend again.
It was quiet outside when I woke. It feels like everything is over, yet the days still have to go on.
My body won't obey me anymore. Can't remember the last time I had a proper meal.
My breath turns to frost. It came earlier and harder this time.
Next door has been quiet for several days now. I hope she's just conserving her strength.
On the radio, someone started reading the record I sent out.
Sent the files out. Nobody answered, but the signal did go out.
Shouldn't have taken that bite. I could smell something was wrong, but I swallowed it anyway.
That man on the other side of the community moved everything from the shared supply point at the street corner back to his own yard. He's refusing to share anything at all.
The cabinet's been empty for three days. My vision keeps going black—probably won't make it to tomorrow.
The cold has retreated. I managed to survive this time because I'd been through it before.
The door's groaning. The wood's starting to crack.
The faucet has run dry. Fortunately, the bathtub is still full.
The fever broke. Today I felt hungry for the first time—that's a good sign.
The fever is fiercer than yesterday. I feel dizzy the moment I sit up, and only one blister pack of medicine remains.
The lamp on the windowsill burns steady, not flickering the way it did last round. He's fine. That's enough.
The light on the windowsill glows steadily. She's fine, and that's enough.
The radio announced martial law. Unified evacuation in ten days—another deadline to survive.
The Refrigerator is empty. I must go out tomorrow.
The roaring has finally faded. It's quiet outside now—I made it through the worst wave.
The roaring has thinned out. The door is still holding.
The signal is completely cut off. The world is finally quiet.
The smell has dissipated. What's left is still edible, just half of what I had last month.
The trap has been empty for two days. The sounds from within the walls have finally stopped.
The wall cracks have been quiet for three days. This wave seems to have passed.
The window next door is flashing repeatedly—it's her distress signal. I have to do something.
The zombies at the door have finally dispersed. I'm glad I can still see tomorrow's sun...
There's a fire upstairs. Smoke is seeping through the ceiling cracks—I need to prepare a fire extinguisher in advance for the next round.
There's a knocking sound from across the way. It's her—she's still alive. But why am I worried about something happening to her?
There's a knocking sound from across the way. It's him, he's still alive. ...So why do I feel like I should have been the one to knock first?
They arrived before dawn, packed so thick outside you couldn't see the ground. For the next few days, there's nowhere to go.
They found the window. All night long, the sound of claws scraping against glass.
They scattered when dawn came. The power came back on too. There are some things scattered by the door—I'll gather them up first.
This time I didn't wait for him to speak first. I knocked three times, and only then did the other side answer.
This time it wasn't just a few scattered ones. The sounds pressed in from all sides, so I barricaded everything I could.
Woke up in the middle of the night from my own coughing. This time it's not just a simple cold.