Dear James,
By the time you finish reading this, I will be gone. It’s not you James. It’s not even me. In truth there is something else. A higher calling that has convinced me to leave you and the kids, and to help save Malton.
I am resuming my quest to add a 50th fire axe to my collection.
James, I have left the kids with Cedric. Yes, I know he is addicted to Revive. I know he spends his time sleeping on a couch in a over-barricaded motel, surrounded by filth and garbage from a month’s long siege. I know he thinks he can save the world by ignoring unbarricaded safehouses and shooting lone zombies in the street. But, he will be a better parent to them than I could ever hope to be. It’s for the best James.
I remember the first time we met. I saw you outside in the street, shooting a wounded zombie swaying beside a parked car. You finished him off with a shotgun, and looked in my direction. I glanced back toward you, past the zombies mauling the sick in St Ethelbert’s Hospital, past the dying survivors in the ransacked Dempsey Grove Police Station, and smiled when you pistol-whipped that zombie at the revive point, ignoring his pathetic Mrh’s. I blew you a kiss, and after I saw you finish the broken corpse with a headshot, I knew that I had finally met a real man here in Malton.
You do remember our first date, right, James? His and her matching black dusters. A romantic spam and canned bean dinner on the roof of Philpotts Tower lit by the still burning Hildebrand Mall…You looked perfect in the light as the fire consumed Hildebrand below us. It was fun, wasn’t James? And the stories you told that night! I laughed so hard that I forgot about the screams in the distance. You always did know how to show a girl a good time.
But James. Those days are past. In this nightmarish world where we are hunted to extinction, we have to remember the basics of survival and continuing on as a species. I can no longer sit around in Roftwood, wasting time establishing safehouses, reviving the fallen, and evacuating the sick and dying. I want to accomplish something with my life before I grow old and frail.
I want to find that 50th fire axe.
I’m sorry James. You would never understand. You never did. Some girls collect jewelry. I collect axes. Each one perfect for a unique task; each one a special tool in my war against the shambling hordes. Take Axe #27. Red wooden handle, well-balanced, with a finely sharpened metal head. Perfect for a Sunday stroll along the rooftops of Roftwood. Or Axe #18. Red wooden handle, well-balanced, with a finely sharpened metal head. Perfect for a night out to the theater. Or Axe #3. The perfect accessory for that blue halter-top you always liked. And as for Axe #50? Well, I won’t know until I see it. But a girl has to have some variety, you know?
I’m sorry, James. I really am. I know I promised to be with you in good times and bad, and in sickness and in health. That we would grow old together, you, my dutiful husband and I, your dutiful wife. That we would raise a family together and be together always, united against the hordes.
It was fun while it lasted but sometimes there are more important things than love and family.
Things like a fire axe.
Love always and do take care of yourself,
Janet xoxoxo
