The End - Part I

I’m going to die. We’re all going to die. They are at the walls. I can’t keep anyone alive with a gun, but this chronicle will live on after this doomed outpost is long forgotten. My confidence in the survival of this record rests in the fact that zombies don’t eat books.

I came to this isolated compound with my employer, Alastair J. Winthorpe III, after the first outbreaks. We never learned what caused the dead to rise, but Mr. Winthorpe was prepared for just such an eventuality. Accompanying us were his daughter and her family, and a small security team of twelve competent men. We flew in my employer’s private helicopter to our new home in the mountains, where we were met by the caretaker and his staff. They seemed rather put out that the owner actually came to take up residence.

The Sanctuary, as it is called, looks more like a prison. Twelve-foot high concrete walls surround the compound on three sides. The sheer rockface of the towering mountain creates a natural fourth wall. The ditchwork at the base of the wall make it at least a 20 foot drop to the ground on the outside. There are guardposts at intervals along the rampart with razor wire stretched between them. A veritable fortress, albeit an ugly one.

I was amazed at the amount of thought Mr. Winthorpe had put into his haven. Within the walls, crops had just been sown in compact rows in small plots of tilled earth. There were already fresh vegetables from the hydroponic gardens, eggs from the chickens and milk from the cows. A bull reigned supreme in his pen, next to a paddock where several horses grazed. A storehouse held everything a gourmet chef would need, though Wolfgang had refused to come with us. The armory contained more guns, ammunition, bows and arrows than our small group could ever use - enough to outfit a small army. We were well-provisioned and well-armed.

The rows of prefabricated bunkhouses stood mostly vacant. The main house was more imposing, consisting of two stories topped by the helipad. There were more than enough rooms to house my employer and his family, the head of security and myself. A well-stocked lake fed by an underground spring was situated behind the house. Above all this, set into the mountain, were the solar panels that provided what little power we needed.

During those first months, we watched the satellite broadcasts of zombie attacks in horror. When those stopped, we huddled around the shortwave radio for news of other survivors. We maintained contact with many other groups at first. This makeshift radio network began to direct refugees to our location. Mr. Winthorpe adamantly did not want any outsiders in The Sanctuary, but at the behest of his more practical and soft-hearted daughter, we allowed them entrance. Before winter, those vacant bunkhouses were nearly full.

((This is a story that my wife and I have collaborated on. There is more...))