Journal- the Judgement Card

Excerpt:
Wednesday, November 21st

Almost had an incident today, all because I dropped my guard for a moment. Stupid, STUPID!
I found myself passing a supermarket and decided to lift a few things from it. Once inside, the stench was almost overpowering. I lifted the neckline of my t-shirt over my nose, but it didn’t help. So I stopped by the cosmetics counter first to spray a little on my shirt so I could tolerate the rottenness.
This market was almost untouched. Very little had been taken, from what I could tell. Only a few bags and boxes of stuff littered the floor. I steered clear of the produce area, as well as the back refrigerator areas where the meat and eggs and milk were slowly becoming a science experiment. Whenever I can, I try to get what I need in disposable plastic cups and pouches. Cans are too bulky and too heavy to carry. Travel as light as possible, that’s my motto. Of course, it means a lot of stops to hunt for food, but I’m not in a big, all-fire rush to get home to Alabama anyway. I mean, well, hell. You know what I mean.
Anyway, I was grabbing some pudding cups when I heard the sound, like something shuffled or scooted across the floor nearby. My flashlight didn’t show anything but the sound certainly spooked me. What immediately followed was a crash, like the sound of breaking glass. Like a jar or bottle had been dumped or knocked to the floor. That’s when I made my mistake. Instead of checking at the end of the aisle to make sure the coast was clear, in my hurry I bumbled into a slick wet spot. I lost my footing and fell hard onto my left knee, but I managed to keep somewhat erect. I was not looking where I was going when I stumbled headfirst into a into a dead thing who grabbed me with vise-like hands. I was amazed this one was still mostly intact. One of his eyes hung like a shrunken grape onto what was left of his cheek, and he howled in my face. His breath was worse than the putrid odor of the long-rotted food. In the glare of my flashlight I could see specks of dried blood around his mouth and on his face. Evidence of his last meal. Somewhere in the back of my mind I wondered who his victim had been.
Fortunately I still held my backpack in front of me. I managed to bring it up just enough to protect my face and neck as the dead thing tried to take a bite. I was so scared spitless, my next action was purely instinctive. I shoved at the dead thing using my whole body to push against it. The thing tottered, unable to keep its balance, but it wouldn’t let go of my arms. I shoved it backwards into the shelves and managed to hit its arms with my flashlight. One wrist made a crunching sound, but the thing held on.
My biggest fear was not that I couldn’t get away from this thing, but that others might show up before I could escape, and their sheer numbers would bring about my demise as they slowly devoured me alive. That knowledge alone gave me the strength to drop to the floor and wrench both my arms and my backpack from its grip. The dead thing swayed forward. But because its nerves and responses were as dead as it was, it was unable to stop itself from falling. With me directly in front of it, the dead thing tumbled headfirst like an acrobat, up, over, and behind me. It finally released its grip. I heard a hollow, squishy sound as it landed, but I wasn’t about to turn around and look. I hightailed it out of there as fast as I could.
My survival instinct was in high gear, and it carried me a good mile down the road before I had to stop and catch my breath. Stupid, stupid! I knew better than go roaming inside a dark store without taking more caution. Those dead things don’t need flashlights. I had been somewhat fortunate in the fact that the foulness of that place had partially masked my presence there. No telling how many more of those things had been inside. It was probably just by accident that the thing found me. Or rather, ran into me. I don’t know. Maybe they can sense body heat. Either way, it was sheer luck I was able to break free. I’ve seen grown men unable to break from the clutches of a dead thing.
Now, as I sit in this cold little room above a roadside gas station and eat my chocolate pudding, there’s a faint odor of purulence from the store emanating off the spoon. Or maybe it’s just my imagination. I just know it’s going to be a long, long time before I ever eat another grape again.