Because I'm on the third day of the outbreak, and bored.
Day 3
Still haven't left the guestroom. Barricaded the door with the dresser and a chair—feels stupid, but better than nothing. Symptoms haven't gotten worse: low fever, aches, that constant dry cough. Or maybe it's just dust and fear. No bites that I know of, thank God. The news went dark two days ago—last broadcast was chaos, screaming, reports of "infected" overwhelming hospitals in the city. Then static.
It's eerily quiet outside. No cars, no sirens, no neighbors yelling at their kids. Just the occasional distant moan or shuffle that makes my blood run cold. Peaked through the curtains earlier—street looks abandoned. A couple overturned cars down the block, trash blowing around like tumbleweeds. No movement. How far did this thing spread? Was it just here, or the whole country? World? Radio's dead now, batteries probably.
Stomach's growling nonstop. Down to the last sleeve of Ritz crackers from the pantry’s stash. Salty, dry, crumbling—God, I'm so sick of them. Makes me dream about real food: steak, pizza, even just a damn apple. Water from the bathroom tap still running, at least. But I know I can't stay holed up forever. Supplies won't last. Have to venture out soon—maybe to the kitchen downstairs, or if I'm brave, the corner store a few blocks away.
I will muster the strength tomorrow. Arm myself, and take a large enough pack to stock up for awhile. If I make it back, I'll report on the state of things. If not... well, whoever finds this, stay quiet. Stay hidden. And for Christ’s sake, find something better than crackers.
