7/1 4:34 pm

Twenty days. Twenty days sneaking, twenty days hiding, twenty to watch my food disappear. Twenty days to quake in fear, at them. The moaning bodies of former friends. That long to watch my city die and rise again, and to hide from it all, in terror. What else can I do? Without a gun or baton or even a measly tire iron, what can I do? Defenseless equals dead now. And for the past twenty days, I had no defenses. But that all changes today.

Saw it through the grimy kitchen window of the house I'm hiding in. A baseball bat in the back yard of this godforsaken spec home, stuck like the Sword of Excalibur in a patch of weeds. It brings me back to the good old days when I thought I had a chance at minor league. Hopefully I still have the touch with a wooden slugger. Heading out to grab it now. Wish me luck, journal.

I can hear moans on the wind.

---

7/1 5:08pm

That was close. Opened up the back porch door, quiet as silk, and tip toed out to the spot topped with weeds and my prize. So far, so good. Picked up the bat and managed to pivot onto a mangled canine chew toy. Which of course clued in my very dead neighbor in the next yard over. Rotting corpse turned it’s head, and I had to duck into the weeds to keep out of sight. It hadn’t moaned yet, so I thought I was safe.

I wasn’t.

It shuffled toward the white picket fence-- only thing between me and it. I did what any sensible idiot would do. Crawled up to the fence. When it got within swing range, popped up and knocked it’s brain loose with a grand slam. The overripe neck snapped, and that was the end of our neighborly conversation.

Yep. Still got the touch. Wooden haft made of solid pine. It'll do just fine.

Good thing, too. Running out of food. Portioning a can of Fancy Feast dog chow can only last so long. Need to get out of this house, and soon.

Should leave this valley entirely, soon as I can manage. Whole town went to hell in a handbasket three weeks ago. Last I heard, we'd been 'quarantined' inside and the army had shoot on sight orders at the blockades. In a fight between my baseball bat and a machine gun, my vote is against the sports equipment.

Doesn't really matter. I've been stuck in this little suburb for a week already. Priority number one is to get out of this dead end cul de sac.

And find some food without a damn dog on the label.