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but now the chance of slipping without detection is minimal, at best. To sum up the situation, the gorge we are required to cross is filled, literally filled, with walkers. Some standing around lazily, lumbering about whenever they catch a whiff of something. Some are crawling along the rough terrain, while others are fighting over rodents. God, this area is fucking rank. The stench of spoiled meat lingers in the air stronger than ever only to increase as the dead begin to populate the gorge even more. I’m not sure where they come from or how they rise, but it appears as if they just happen to spawn. If the dead are spawning from Hell, then what happens when you send them back?
     
    I don’t want to know the answer just yet. Good news, James tried his crappy cell phone to discover that the lines are finally clear. He can dial out to the groupies he will never see again, hurray. But while James tries his contacts for any answer, I ponder the dreaded thought that perhaps the lines are free because no one is calling anymore. No sudden panic to bog the lines would mean the worse for us. Good news, we’re alone and this area seems to have become a battlefield for those that survive thus far. I think I’ll take the bad news instead. We’re fucked. Completely fucked. James can’t get a single person to answer their phones. Leaving voice mails, the heavy metal rocker somehow ignored the fact that we still needed to find a way cross the gorge since the bridge was blown to pieces.
     
    Jack has worked with me so far in developing a plan. This wrecked building contains a lot of building supplies that we could use to rig up some sort of platform. The question is how do we buy enough time to use it and escape to the other side?
     
    Grace, using Jack’s binoculars, reported that the other side seems far less dense than where we are currently. I hope she is correct. I wouldn’t want to do all of this work just to become zombie food.
     
     
     
     
    Entry Twenty-Four, 1/10/15
     
    For three and a half days we worked on it. For three and a half days we slaved on an asinine project that could have failed in so many ways. Jack, James, and I worked on building makeshift walls out of sheet metal, rebar, and steel poles. There was no way for us to measure the distance needed, all we could do was gauge from the windows of the third floor as they overlooked the back exit (which I believe was used for a quick dumping of all sorts of stuff). Jack welded the material while James and I gathered the parts. Working under the beating lash of the smoldering heat was aggravating enough, but combined with the stomach-churning stench of decay made concentration almost impossible.
     
    The first day ended, but I was too tired to write a damn thing. Besides, none of us slept. None of us slacked in fear that the doors would finally falter to the thrashing outside. We continued busting our asses through two more days.
     
    Our rations were running low, the water was limited, and the food was down to purely the junk of junk food. But the next day ended with the walls ready for deployment.
     
    James lined a shit load of flammable canisters by the back door, I fastened my bag tighter in fear of losing it, and Jack positioned a makeshift wall in front of us, while Grace stood by the door with her machete thirsting for blood. She flipped the switch and the door slowly opened, revealing a mob of rotting fiends. James threw out a canister and Grace fired a few shots once it reached home. The explosion erupted in chunks, limbs flying, while fire eats at their soiled meat. Jack pushed forward first, but I was quick to offer support. We pushed through the zombie horde with the wall and set it adjacent to the door. Grace offered cover by slashing at the frenzied mass long enough for us to return for another wall. Just as before, Jack and I grabbed another wall, while James and Grace worked together on the demolitions. The zombie mass cleared out in chucks of