7/15 12:04pm

Learned two things today. First, a fourth grader’s tree fort is too small for a six foot five man. Second, every plan I make seems doomed by Murphy’s law.

It was going all going to work perfect. Only two meatsacks in the front yard. Only one between me and the tree fort. Open the door, pop the the moaner one to the skull, and scramble across the wet grass to the tree.

So what, I told myself, if the other moaner saw me? I would only be a minute up to the top of the tree and a minute back down. Hardly enough time to worry about anything other than the great view up top. Right?

If only. I was halfway up the fort’s ladder when my foot slipped on one of the rungs. The rung my left hand was on, suddenly holding more weight cracked, all loud like. That left me with one hand hold and a shin just in claw reach of the other moaner, who had taken a keen interest in the flailing foot hanging in front of him.

I kicked the corpse’s hand away and made it the rest of the way up the tree, to the fort. Undaunted, the walker just kept right on moaning, which quickly drew the rest the undead in the cul de sac.

I now have a swarm of twenty-five of Muldraugh’s concerned citizens all vying for their own little piece of me. My bat fell out of my pack and sits underneath their feet. The backpack is still full of meds and completely empty of food. I still have this journal and a pen, for what it’s worth.

I guess I did learn one other thing today. The tree has a great view-- of even more suburban hell, each with proud dead homeowners meandering down the streets, toward my tree.