I don’t want to sound like I’m whining, but this zombie apocalypse is not what I signed up for. I thought it would mostly mean moving from place to place, searching for food in old cans, finding shelter, and looking for clean water. Sometimes, yes, we’d have to fight zombies, but only if we weren’t careful enough to avoid the cities.

That seemed fine to me. I was ready. One hand signed the papers, the other loaded my Smith & Wesson. I thought, “Lock and load. Let’s deal with these walkers.” To me, they were just target practice.

Back then, I was full of energy and hope. Now, I’m starting to wonder if we’re the real walking dead.

Sure, I knew bandits would be a problem—that was in the brochure. But it didn’t say anything about bandits wearing horns and dressing like characters from Mad Max. The whole thing was supposed to be realistic. If I wanted Mad Max, I would’ve picked that apocalypse instead. And don’t get me started on ending up in Spain, where everyone is acting like they’re in some old Mexican western. That was definitely not mentioned anywhere. Believe me, I’ve checked the brochure at least a hundred times.

If someone had told me this was going to turn into a remake of The Magnificent Seven, I would’ve chosen a different apocalypse—maybe Fallout. At least that one has some humor. Here, everyone is so serious, and it’s exhausting.

And one more thing: the clothes. They’re terrible. I should have kept the ones I grabbed from that abandoned Walmart in Athens. Not Athens, Greece—Athens, Georgia. That place had everything: guns, ammo, Barbie dolls, even Doritos.

Doritos. That makes me think of the bandits who call themselves “primotivos.” They believe in living a primitive way. Hardly any Spaniards followed a “Paleo” diet before the world ended, but these guys are strict about it. No gluten, only organic meat and vegetables. It might seem impressive—if they weren’t such jerks.

I don’t even know where these “primotivos” get their supplies. And their horned masks? Totally impractical. How do they even see through them? At least the Whisperers made some sense. They controlled zombies by whispering to them—moving whole groups around. That was clever, even if their leader Alpha was crazy. Their masks weren’t just decoration; they served a purpose. Back then, when there was no gas or bullets, that mattered. But now? We have plenty of both.

Last night, during the celebrations, I asked a woman how she was doing, and she answered, “Abundant.” Strange word, but not wrong. Somehow, we have more than enough of everything now. I don’t really understand why, but we do.

Sorry if I sound like I’m complaining. Truth is, I just miss Cooper. He was my best friend. Cooper could do anything, and everyone loved him—strange, since Americans are usually the worst (just look at Carol and her constant lecturing). But Cooper was different.

He was kind, confident without being annoying, and always made you feel comfortable. He tied knots like a pro, and his voice—like an angel’s. I cried every time he sang “Els Segadors” under the moon. We’d drink tequila, share tapas recipes, and I’d always end up crying about my mother. Cooper always listened. His shoulder seemed made for it.

His death was so pointless. Too young, too brave. You all know what I mean. We all loved him. Maybe he wasn’t as graceful as Julian (RIP), but Cooper was a part of us. Losing him still hurts.

There are small comforts. My Spanish isn’t great, but the villagers here are all bilingual and often switch to English. Maybe to include me—or just to show up the French. Cooper, though, spoke languages beautifully: Spanish, French, and more. The locals even said his Spanish was better than theirs. The women swooned when he recited poems like “Romance Sonámbulo.” Classic Coop.

I still don’t get why Justina took Alba’s place. She was in love with Roberto. They could’ve joined us on the boat. Sure, the boat is a bad idea—we’ll probably die on it—but at least they would’ve died together. Lovers to the end.

Daryl crossed the ocean on a freighter. Carol flew across in a tiny plane. So maybe anything’s possible. When the world ended, I was stuck in a submarine. A yellow submarine, meant for fun little tours. We stayed underwater for months. The smell was unbearable.

Honestly, the zombie apocalypse is better than that submarine. Imagine being crammed in with angry Russians, a few other passengers, and barely any food or water. Like Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas mixed with Gilligan’s Island—but without the fun.

At least now, in the apocalypse, we’re not short on anything (except modern clothes). We’ve got gas, electricity, bullets, and food. The brochures always warned about scarcity, but clearly no one understood how a zombie apocalypse would work. My car doesn’t even run out of gas anymore. Ever. It’s weird. Sometimes I wonder if I’m just dreaming.

I think about this a lot lately. Honestly, I’m scared of falling into that rabbit hole. Once you start questioning reality, who knows what will happen. The “primivitos” want to “burn everything down” (“quemarlo todo” in Spanish), but the benefits are pretty great, so I’m not sure we should do that. I don’t even pay rent anymore, which is nice. And since I don’t have kids, I don’t have to give my daughter to the king (el rey). I just keep my head down, do my work, and play Call of Duty with my friends at night. Somehow the WiFi still works in this apocalypse, and online games are one of the main ways we all stay sane. Stay frosty, everyone.

Still, I get nervous sometimes. The brochure talked about “plot armor” — if you didn’t get it in Season 1, you’re probably doomed. Cooper learned that the hard way. He was around for, what, twelve or thirteen seasons? Even a veteran like him wasn’t safe. What are my chances? Without that magical Season 1 plot armor, you’re basically out of luck — unless your name is Negan. I don’t even know who Negan is, but the brochure says he has the same protection as the original characters, which seems pretty stupid to me. But no one asks what I think. Half the time people forget I even exist. Some other survivors managed to get plot armor after Season 1 — Maggie, Michonne. Seems like if you’re a woman whose name starts with “M,” you’re safe. Those are the rules. They’re printed in the stupid brochure. I’m seriously thinking about changing my name to Miriel or Michelle or Magdalena.

Of course, not everyone from Season 1 got plot armor. The brochure lied to them like it lied to us. Sorry Glenn. Sorry Andrea. Sorry Billy Bob. I don’t even know who wrote this brochure. All I know is my wool jacket is itchy and I wish the “no scarcity” rule applied to lotion. Nobody has any. If I had some, I’d definitely use it on my skin.

Need gas for your motorcycle or bullets for your machine gun? No problem — there’s a tanker full of fuel, thousands of rounds, an armored truck, even a beer-shaped hot-air balloon. But if you want aloe vera? Forget it. (Or go kick rocks at the bandit in the horned mask. He seems to want to kill you for some reason. The brochure doesn’t explain why!)

Cooper was supposed to fix the lotion shortage. He promised me last week — probably just to shut me up — but he had a real plan. And look how that turned out. “The best laid plans of mice and men” and all that. He died working on that little deathtrap of a boat. It feels like anyone who deals with those two American outsiders ends up cursed. I’m not even that superstitious compared to the locals, but I have a bad feeling.

Daryl talks big, and Carol seems to know exactly what she wants, but I’d bet money neither of them actually gets on that sinking boat. They’ll probably send Justina (after they rescue her — which they will, I can feel it) and Roberto off on their own, while they head off to Germany or Italy or somewhere else. Croatia, maybe. They’re already talking about some “Laurent” they want to track down in America. Sounds like a scam to me. “The chosen one,” Daryl told me when I asked. Whatever that means. Sure, buddy.

I’d go back to America too, if I wasn’t terrified of water — well, big bodies of water. It’s leftover trauma from the yellow submarine we all lived in. We all lived in a yellow submarine! For months! Maybe I’ll just go to Italy with Daryl and Carol. They won’t even notice me. I miss pizza. The brochure promised pizza. There’s no pizza. Just piles of mutton, paella, and stale saltine crackers. People keep talking about hot dogs, but I haven’t seen any. Not sure when we’re getting them, but I’m not saying anything. That’s why I write in this diary. I need somewhere to vent.

I mostly keep quiet. But a person has to let it out somehow.

Published: 29th September 2025

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