Picture this: a beautiful white plantation house with three floors, an enormous library, and the biggest kitchen you’ve ever seen, surrounded by huge fields of corn and sugarcane. This is where I grew up. We were originally from New Orleans, but when the monsters came, we had to high-tail it out of the city and quick. I was only four when the monsters came, so I don’t remember much of our life before, but I hear it was pretty nice. We’ve made a good home for ourselves here, though, my dad, two sisters and a few other people. Not many kids my age, though.

Our plantation home has gotten quite the reputation these past few years as a safe haven for survivors. There’s usually a steady stream of people coming and going, looking for food and shelter for a few days, but they usually leave again, searching for their long-lost family members. I don’t know why they even bother. It’s been twelve years since the monsters came. No one is ever going to find their families alive anymore. No one.

I lost my mom to the monsters when I was six. We were clearing out this very plantation, getting rid of the monsters when one of them actually managed to sneak up behind my mom. They dragged her away and turned her before anyone even knew what happened. I thought my dad would completely lose it like my sister did, but he was strong. He kept clearing the plantation, making it safe for the rest of us. There were about twenty or so people with us at that time. Mostly grownups. Not many kids survived the monsters in those first couple of years. Made too much noise, you see. Moved too slow. And worst of all; couldn’t understand that their parents were no longer their parents.

My dad kept my sisters and I alive by teaching us how to defend ourselves right from the start. He taught us to keep moving, never stop moving, and hit harder than you’ve ever hit before. Back then, I had bashed in the brains of at least a dozen monsters before I lost my first tooth.

Things were a little different now....