Well we’ve got some horrible news. The little lad Noah turned just over an hour ago, puking the sulphurous black sludge onto his dad, who was keeping him company in the quarantine pit. His dad refused to leave him, but Jay and I knew instantly and hauled him out. The boy fainted, and came to after a minute or so, gnashing and growling, clawing at the chalk walls of the pit to get to us. I asked his father if he’d ike to do it, but he was hysterical by that stage, and even tried to stop me from going in. There’s hardly any room down in the pits, so we tried to lash the boy to the sides so I could get in. Axes or swords are pretty useless in the space, as you can’t swing properly. I had to use a spade. He was nine years old.
The last time we lost a camp member was in the spring, but that was a direct zombie bite to someone who didn’t listen to our advice and went foraging on their own. This, however, was a fox bite. I’ve sent Dawn on horseback to get what was left of the fox (the crows around here are pretty hungry), after pointing out where I’d shot it through her binoculars. I need to see what I assume is the case – that there will be infected zombie meat either in the jaws of the animal or in its gullet or intestines. We’ve been living with both beagles since [day 001] and their teeth and muzzles are regularly caked in the black slime from where they have brought down Stinkers – but they’ve never bitten ayone to transfer it (they also seem utterly immune to the disease, whatever it is).
The mood in camp is bad. Jay and Dal will dig the first grave in months. People are crying, the kids are scared. I’ve never dispatched anyone that young before. But, as I keep telling people, he stopped being a person the moment he spewed out that stinking black bile. (By the way, thanks to Paul from the Bramber Castle encampment who has just this moment arrived with the last of their antibiotics.)