The Zombie Effect, Survivor’s Log – Entry #2

Survivor’s Log – Entry #2 Date: November 26, 2029… [transmission static] 

Entry by: Edward Quin, Age 16

[Recording initiated…]

The day started like any other.

Crowded hallways. Locker slams. That weird smell in the cafeteria no one talks about. I was half-asleep through first period, counting down the hours to the weekend. Finals were coming up, and everyone was either wired on caffeine or dead-eyed from cramming.

But by the time Jeremy and I were walking home, the world had shifted.

It was subtle at first—just a weird stillness in the air. Then we hit the main road. Three cars

sat abandoned at the curb, doors wide open, engines still humming like they’d been left in a hurry. A backpack lay in the gutter, papers fluttering across the asphalt like someone had dropped it mid-run.

And the people…

They weren’t walking right. Too slow. Too heavy. Like their bones had forgotten how to move.

Jeremy noticed it first. He’s always watching, always calculating. “Zombies,” he said under his breath. I laughed it off—nervous reflex. But then we saw Mrs. Demerby.

She was chasing her dog down the sidewalk, barefoot, eyes wild, mouth foaming like she was the one with rabies. Her hands were clawing at the air, and the dog—usually the laziest mutt on the block—was sprinting like its life depended on it.

That’s when I knew.

We didn’t wait. We kept going.

We’ve had a plan for this since before we could walk. Dad made sure of that. If the outbreak ever hit, we meet at the house, grab the gear, and head for the cabin. It’s remote, fortified, and stocked. We trained for this—drills, escape routes, even code words.

Jeremy’s already packing. I’m logging this. Mara’s still out there. I just hope she makes it home in time.

I’m not writing this for us. I’m writing it in case we don’t make it. Dad always said: document everything. If this device survives longer than we do, someone needs to know the truth.

The outbreak didn’t begin at night.

It was already here in daylight, creeping into the edges of normal life.

[Recording terminated…]