[ WP ] It 's been 8 months since the zombie apocalypse . You fell in with a tough as nails roughneck group . When in the city looting , you come across a scavenger . He 's your best friend from before the outbreak and your crew unanimously decides to execute him ( he is armed ) .

August 15?, 2017: 
 
 I do n't know what date it is and it's not like it matters anymore, my Suunto stopped working somewhere in the Grand Staircase. 
 
 For the first time in 8 months I saw my brother today. 
 Well, not my actual brother. It was Sam. My other brothers are gone, dead or missing or almost dead. You already know that, I'm not talking about that. 
 
 Sam. 
 
 It's weird, I hated him in fifth grade. The stuckup little prick was sooo cooooool, he could play violin. Go shove that bow up your little fifth grade butthole. In 9th grade we acted like catty bitches at the beach, but then we bonded over catty bitches and Inception. Alexis, eat your heart out. 
 
 Well I guess her father did that ( her mom was too attached to pull the trigger- so much life, and good pussy, wasted because of wanton nostalgia ). 
 
 Anyway. Sam. 
 
 Sam is my brother. I have a better relationship with him than I did with my oldest brother- I had to shoot Andrew. I almost had to shoot Sam too, but that same pussy-ruining nostalgia saved his prettyboy ass. 
 
 
 
 We're in Springdale, Utah. I've been here before. Summer of 2013- Sam was supposed to be there, but he was n't. He was, Spring Break 2014, with me. And his sister- yeah. Sam's sister. 
 
 Anyway. Sam. 
 
 We're in Springdale because let's be honest- when you're boxed in on two sides by Navajo Sandstone, and a river on the third, you're in good shape nowadays. Plus we need new gear. Or, we did. Sam and I need new gear. Grand Staircase, the Kaibab, and Colorado City... fucking Colorado City I do n't want to relive that I ca n't think about that now... and now this, can destroy even the Toughest and most Hardcore gear. 
 
 Sam's in Springdale because he is n't dumb. He should have been with me, 7 months ago, careening through Springfield, but he's here now. His sister is n't. What a shame. 
 
 Anyway. 
 
 We came into our own version of sanctuary via some old Park Service trails- surprisingly well kept by nature and the rutting of a thousand shod hikers. Without those damned shuttle busses it was quiet, like it must have been for the Paiutes. But Mormons came to them like the dead came to us, and they cleared out pretty quick. From the rim you could n't see the stragglers keeping up their infinite incessant watch over the lodge, or the crowd of crushed steel and calcium in the tunnel. Those things are trivial; we worked through that easily. A day, to clear a lodge, two campgrounds, and all the facilities. All for the taking. 
 
 Sam and I's little kingdom. 
 
 The campgrounds and Springdale bleed into each other. 
 I guess our chatter or the chatter of the wind along with chip-and-pour brought the what was left of that little boom town into the campgrounds because aside from Sam, there was no one. 
 
 
 
 
 I never take point. That's damn dumb. When I have to go inside I like to stay towards the end-It's easier to stay me that way. Being a line leader is n't worth it, it's harder to run out if you're mobbed by townsfolk. No, I like roofs. It's a legitimate strategy. An M16A4, property of the Missouri National Guard, works better up there than it does bumbling through a La Quinta. The little Trijicon I have works better at seeing friendly faces out on the town than it does checking in on guests. 
 
 The little Trijicon saw Sam's friendly face, out on the town. His littler Trijicon did n't see mine. But he saw my friends, or compatriots, or fellow guests, or Missourians serving our state proudly- and they saw him. His Trijicon saw one of them before my fellow statesmen had him down on his knees, birdcage flash hider nestled gently in his mouth. 
 
 Their voices crackled through my little two meter handy talkie, and they were out for blood. They wanted Sam and Springdale to bleed into each other. 
 
 `` I know this guy- I knew him. He's one of us. He's... he's my-'' 
 
 William interrupted me. He did n't care who he was, and he did n't care that my `` pansy ass'' knew Sam. He liked calling me that, pansy ass. Just because I can drive tacks and appreciate slick rock. 
 
 Sam must have heard me. He scanned the roof tops, looking for the little birdcage that knew him. 
 
 William wrestled with his own birdcage and Sam's shoddily kept dental work. He was flanked by two other men- if you could call animals that flaunt the decency expected of humans men- and their names shall not be noted here. They were of no significance to any one or any thing and deserve no mention. 
 
 The little birdcage on the La Quinta roof barked three times. William and the others do n't matter anymore. They and the chip-and-pour bleed into each other. 
 
 
 
 Sam and I are together again- and as I write in this battered, useless Moleskine he's watching over me and the new tent we picked up in town. The stars are beautiful through the netting.
