He’d spent his last clear hours writing in a leather journal he found in a nightstand. Not for anyone else—there was no one left. Just for himself. A final save file. “If you find this: Don’t trust the helicopter. Don’t sleep on the ground floor. And never, ever get attached to a safehouse. I had a Spiffo plush. Named him Bitey. Threw him in a river when I couldn’t stop crying. That’s the real horror. Not the zombies. The little things you leave behind.” He heard moans from the cornfield. Three. Maybe four.
He took the first bullet—the one meant for the bourbon bottle. It shattered, spilling whiskey across the floor. Then he held the revolver to his temple.
He just waited.