Previously on ILL… I got sick, the world got sick. I got better, the world died. We’re mostly all still here, some shape, but the rest of the world is rotting rapidly away and it doesn’t smell too good…

I’m ill.

I know, you’ve heard it before. This time it didn’t start with a sneeze. It started with a cough, followed by another, followed by a string of such violent spasms of the diaphragm that I thought my chest would burst into flames. I spat up lumps of dark red shit, so dark it was almost black. I’ve lived, I’ve seen stuff. I know this is bad. I’m going to need a second trip to the library though, just so I can put a name to it.

Funnily enough, I should have picked up a medical dictionary when I was last there but I hadn’t read the survival guides then. Actually, I was quite surprised that my local library contained a small selection of such guides, including a couple on how to survive a zombie apocalypse. I’ve been reading them all week and picking up a lot of good tips for my upcoming move out of the town.

To be honest, a lot of it is bullshit and a lot more is irrelevant to my personal situation (ie. not being on the zombie list of edibles), but there is useful information, such as what to carry in your ‘Bug-Out Bag’ or ‘B.O.B.’ (including a medical dictionary!), which is supposed to be enough to last 72 hours in an emergency. All good reading.

However, I do have one little observation to make here. The list of items that these guides recommend is about two pages long. Exactly how big is this Bug-Out Bag supposed to be? So far, I’ve collected over half of the listed items and it’s all piled up in the back of the pick-up truck! Are there actually survivors out there lugging all this shit around? What chance do they have running from the Munchers? Absolutely none! So what then?

“Excuse me, Mr. and Mrs. Brain-eater, would you mind holding on for just a moment while I dig around in my infeasibly large back-pack. I know I packed a machete in here somewhere… dammit, where is it?.. Ah! No, no, that’s a folding shovel… Aha! No, no, that’s a mini water filtration kit… Could you hold that? Thank you so much… Where is it?… Oh, wait! I remember now. I wrapped it inside the big tarpaulin so I wouldn’t cut myself when I went rummaging in here… Will you help me pack this all away again after? It took me bloody ages to get it all in here the first time… Oh, wait, no, sorry, I have to cave your skulls in, don’t I? Never mind then.”

Do you think zombies appreciate sarcasm? Probably not.

Anyway, as I was saying, my imaginary friends, I’m almost ready to go. I’ll be a little sad, I think. I’ve lived here all my life and I know I’ve slagged off the town over the years but it’s ‘home’, isn’t it? I always imagined that I would die here too but, suddenly, urgently, I don’t want to, not amongst the rotting corpses of the people I’ve lived with all this time. I just might have left it too late.

No. I know where I want to go. There’s this island that we visited on a school trip one day long ago. It used to be inhabited by monks who made perfume and shortbread and chocolate. Maybe they’re still there (the monks, that is, not the shortbread and chocolate) but I doubt it. The monastery has its own underground reservoir and there’s a lighthouse on the island too. That’s so cool!

That’s where I dream of spending my last days. So peaceful, looking out over the sea, gazing out towards faraway countries. Is there anyone else left, I wonder? I doubt it.

It looks like I’m not going to make it, after all. That last coughing fit was a really bad one. Ah well.

The Bible says: “The meek shall inherit the earth.” The meek among us are all gone so it can’t mean them. Our kind is done here. No. I think it means cows. I hope it means cows. They’ve had a pretty bum deal up to now.

Good luck cows!




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