Sex is one of my favorite things in the world. I absolutely need it in order for my life to feel complete. I need hands wrapped around my throat as some hot guys takes me at a relentless, and sweaty, pace.
Why am I telling you all this? Well, let’s just say it has to do with the fact that, as humans, we all have passions. Desires. Needs. Ignoring these needs only leads to a type of restlessness, missed opportunity, and discontentment. But we have to tread carefully. If you become wholly obsessed with a single passion, it will lead to ruin. Those consumed with the undying urge to gain more power become tyrants. Those obsessed with getting revenge become the thing they hate in the first place. And those who are obsessed with satisfying their every need, even at the sake of others, become no good scoundrels and villains.
What we have to find is balance. We have to balance our needs and desires with what is reasonable. It’s the only way to stay sane.
I only bring this subject up because today three of my men got rowdy with some of the female survivors. A couple of nice looking girls, probably no more than eighteen or nineteen, were waiting in line for their rations. The trio of men followed them outside with the pretense of offering them some added protection as they left the perimeter of the safety zone. Instead, my men ushered the two young women into a nearby alleyway where they proceeded to get rough with them.
I followed them without bringing detection to myself, and waited to see what they’d do. Soon enough, the two girls became frightened and tried to leave, but when that didn’t work they tried to shove their way out. However, this only seemed to amuse the men, who looked forward to a little challenge before the real fun began, and they toyed with the women some more before tearing all their clothes off.
Now I can’t abide sexual assault, but perhaps more than this I can’t abide when people under my employ decide they’re above the rules. Disobedience I simply do not tolerate. If you want to act like a bunch of Neanderthals, there’s a whole uncivilized world outside these borders that would be glad to have you. But in my city, in my syndicate, my word is law. And of my rules, one of the most unwavering is the command: Though shall not rape.
As the girls trembled the men snickered and jeered in lingering anticipation of the copious “fun” they were about to inflict, that’s when, from the shadows, I lit up my cigarette.
You should have seen the look on their faces when they all realized exactly who it was crouched down in the dark corner underneath the fire escape. Looking right at them, my face illuminated by the soft orange glow of my lighter’s flame, I shot them a cold gaze. You would have been impressed at how my men responded. All of them got down on their hands and knees, and bowed, touching head to ground in shame, as they pleaded for forgiveness. But like I said, my word is law, and the punishment for breaking it is severe.
As I wiped off my blade, the women gathered their belongings, spat on the men’s headless corpses, thanked me and then left.
I wanted you to know this because I wanted you to know that this is the form of obedience and loyalty I demand of my people. If I have to explain to you why you have insulted and dishonored me, then you’ve forfeited your position in my empire, and your worthless ass will be exiled. If you’ve carried out an egregious crime against my decree, then you’ve forfeited your safety and you’re as good as dead to me.
Now that your attention is all mine, what do you suppose I’d do if anyone ever betrayed me?
You see, over the past couple of months now, Takahiro’s clan of rebels have been relentless in their opposition to me. Their sheer anticipation of my every move has been unbelievable, to say the least. It had gotten to the point where I couldn’t go a week without seeing his ugly mug and wishing that’s I’d taken him out when I’d had the chance.
Now imagine my disappointment when, after doing a bit of digging, I found out that I had a double agent in my network, and more than this, it was the guy I’d been crushing on for weeks.
His name is Ren Kitayama. Of course, he’s new to my clan, but he’d checked out fine and had contacts within my organization that vouched for him. He has one of those hardened faces where you can never be sure quite what he’s thinking, which drives me insane. He has dark brown eyes, a bit of stubble on his chin, is tall, and just the right kind of skinny. Tone, with a nice ripple of abs, but not overly hard edged. And considering that I haven’t been laid since I let that two-face snake Takahiro share my bed with me, I’ve really been hoping that Ren would make himself available to me in some way.
That was the fantasy however. But instead of getting a hot night with a hot guy, all I got was disappointment. Ren turned out to be the mole leaking information to the Banjin. In fact, I have a sneaking suspicion that he’s taking orders directly from that snake, Takahiro, himself.
Maybe I am just another stupid girl falling pathetically for another stereotypical bad boy, and maybe it really is that simple. Maybe Ren Kitayama is just the next in a long line of such bad boys I’ll likely fall head over heels for.
I don’t know. There’s just something about him that intrigues me and gets me hot all at the same time. I’ve sent him on more dangerous missions than anyone, and he’s survived every single one of them. He’s a true warrior’s warrior, like an ancient gladiator from Rome, he deserves the respect of all those who are lucky enough to be in his presence. I know it’s a stupid thing to fantasize about, but he’d make such a great companion to me—you know—if he wasn’t such a back stabbing knave and total lowlife.
In one instant I dream of him inside of me and the next I dream of drinking his blood spilling from his lips, as I stand there still hold the crimson stained knife that slit his throat tightly in my hand.
You really have no idea how much these dark twisted fantasies make me nervous. Don’t get me wrong though, I’m not nervous because I am worried that it might come down to us facing off in a duel to the death, because I could easily take him. I’m nervous because I think I might be falling for him; and I totally know I shouldn’t be.
If I fall for him, then I won’t be able to do what is necessary. And I won’t be worthy of retaining the crown as Princess Gangster. Ren has been bad. He needs to be punished.
So now I’m conflicted. I don’t know whether I should fuck his brains out and then suffocate the traitor between my thighs, or whether I should snatch him out from his bed in the middle of the night, skin him alive, and hang him by his toenails from Tokyo Tower. Make an example of him. I’m sure the zombies would love a live piñata to slash at until the spoils of Ren’s guts spilled out onto the ground for all to enjoy.
Honestly, I’m leaning toward the suffocate him with my thighs way, because a girl still has to be allowed her passions. Even if it is the bloody end of the world.
I guess you’ll just have to wait till next week to find out all the gory details, and which way I take this. Until then, tend to your passions. Consider it an order. After all, you only live once.
***October 2, 2019 (Z.E.)
Old Wives’ Tale
After the movie Jaws was release all the beaches across America emptied out of a newborn paranoia felt by people believing that every inch of shoreline had been infested by giant great white sharks. Old wives’ tales of sharks smelling the blood of menstruating young women began to circulate, and soon the beaches looked like something out of the desolate opening of Planet of the Apes—without a person in sight.
Now, I wasn’t even born yet when either of those movies came out, but I remember my dad watching them before the Zombie Era, and I know such stories can be extremely powerful. They tap into the darkest parts of our psyche and play our own fears against us. Most of the time, however, such wives’ tales prove to be nothing but farce and fiction, stories exaggerated and blown out of proportion, turned into urban legend as years of repetition have solidified only the most basic and potent elements of the myth. Most of the time you don’t even buy into them but simply go along with it all so that you can join in having a laugh at the expense of the gullible and the credulous. Later on we can all look back at such tall tales and laugh it all off as a bit of harmless naïveté.
But post Z.E., there is one wives’ tale that is deadly true—zombies do smell blood. And just my luck, I started my period.
Which sucks for me, seeing as I’m trapped up on this billboard with a throng of pallid faces looking up at me with whitewashed eyes. Their hungry moans betray their intent, and I can’t help but laugh at the fact that being a girl in today’s world is no easier than the last. Everyone still wants to chew you up and spit you out.
Lucky for you though, because being stuck up here gives me more than enough time to write in this diary. The problem is, now that I’ve begun, I don’t really know what to say. So I guess I’ll just start with today’s events so far.
It may not be lady like—whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean—but I’ve already taken a couple bloody pisses on the congregation of stupid moaning heads down below. It doesn’t seem to do much to quench their insatiable thirst for blood however. Still, it’s the thought that counts, right? Besides, when you gotta go, you gotta go. And it’s not like I can just climb down and find the nearest restroom.
Scrambling up here may not have been the wisest idea. But it was either this or take my chances cutting through downtown, with every biter in the city chasing after my ass. It makes one wonder, how many girls hid themselves away, only to be unaware of the fact that they were like a bright glowing flame to a moth, but instead of a moth, it was a mouth, and that mouth was attached to one of the living dead.
Somehow, being on the outskirts of town just seemed like a better choice for this time of month. Either that or stay holed up somewhere with a candles and incense. That usually masks the faint coppery scent of blood. But I can handle myself if push comes to shove, and well, I was doing just fine until this morning.
By noon I had sixty or so deadheads trailing after me. So I headed for the bridge I use when I want to cross the river, cut back to a secondary bridge, and ditch the whole lot of them, leaving them confused as they stumble to the other side while I back track around. The thing is though, the bridge I needed to use had unexpectedly been demolished. And I bet I know who I can thank for that—Takahiro and his band of little terrorists.
That’s politics for you. A bunch of treachery, lies, and strategic backstabbing. I know what Takahiro’s clan of Banjin are up to. They’re trying to bottleneck my organization by cutting off all access points to the city. If they can take out key bridges and tunnels, then they could effectively gain control over the main trade routes, and I’d have no choice but to deal with them. They could cripple my empire.
Today’s mission was simple enough. Head out and scout around for any signs of the rebels or any further misdeeds on their part. Of course, today’s incident began with the third bridge we’ve found out of service in just as many weeks. As you can imagine, I’m beginning to regret my choice of letting Takahiro run free. He’s proving to be a much more capable pain in my ass then I initially anticipated.
Not only that, my new tattoo itches like a son of a bitch. I got it on my inner left thigh. If I wear a mini-skirt it’s noticeable. I chose the kanji symbols for the praying mantis, or kamakiri in Japanese.
I don’t know why I chose the mantis, other than the fact that the female eats the male after sex, and something about that tickles me. Every male within her purview desires her, but every male fears her, knowing that if he is lucky enough to be the chosen one, he will have the best time of his life quickly followed by a gruesome and brutal death.
Speaking of gruesome deaths, I tell myself, Sae, you’ve taken on sixty monsters before. You can do it again. But then the other part of reminds me that last time I took on a large horde I had to lose in order to win, and that in losing, I had to endure the pain of being eaten alive. That’s not something you ever want to go through… twice. Once was more than enough, thank you very much.
So I’ve been sitting up here all afternoon considering my alternatives. But being stuck up on this billboard gives me very little in the way of possibilities with any chance of success. All chances of success are remote at best.
So far my best bet is to try and get down without injury, make my way through about thirty biters, then manage to outrun the rest as I head back toward what remains of the bridge. Once there, putting the river to my back, I could anchor down and fight off the oncoming flood of living dead. That way I wouldn’t have to worry about anything but the onslaught. Then it’s just a matter of fighting until every last one of those things has been thoroughly lobotomized and put down.
But with the gathering of undead below, such a bold plan seems fleeting not to mention overly optimistic. Lots of things could go wrong. Jumping off from this height I might land wrong, break my ankles or snap my shins. Then I’d be back in that situation I never want to be in again. Or maybe I get down, and fate willing, I make it to the bridge, but unbeknownst to me some of Takahiro’s people are waiting there for me, and then I’m at an even greater disadvantage, fighting of lethal threats from both sides.
Nah, for now I think I’ll just smoke a cigarette and watch the sun set. To be honest, I don’t do it enough. I guess with all the rot and ruin, all the dust and decay, surrounding you every moment of everyday, you sometimes forget how beautiful nature can really be.
It’s these little moments that really seem to put everything else into perspective.
Fortunately, I brought an extra pack of smokes along with me this morning. Didn’t think I’d need them, but here I am, and now I think I’ll enjoy taking my time smoking every last one of them. Well, maybe I’ll save one for breakfast. Hopefully, when I don’t check in tomorrow, someone will come looking for me and get me down off this bloody thing. If not, then I can start weighing my options.
My name is Saeko Sakaguchi. If you’re reading this, heed my advice. If you ever get run down by zombies, make sure you have an exit strategy; otherwise you might find yourself stuck up a goddamn pole with no way down.
***September 20, 2019 (Z.E.)
The Art of War
Yesterday was a bloodbath. The thing you need to keep in mind about the living dead is that after a while they stop rotting. About two months to be precise. As if there is a limit to the amount they can decay. Nobody knows why they stop rotting. Whatever the Resurrection virus does to them, it preserves them indefinitely as a living corpse.
Some have gone as far as to begin calling them Lazarus’s children, as if it’s some kind of divine miracle which prevents them from wasting away into nothingness. But I guarantee you this much, it’s not a miracle. It’s a goddamn curse.
Yesterday I realized my greatest fear. For as long as I can remember it has been the fear of getting overwhelmed, and fighting until I can’t raise my sword any longer, and then crumpling under the weight of the chomping teeth and cracked fingernails of clawing hands of the living dead.
And I’ll spare you the gory details, but let’s just say it wasn’t pretty. Imagine this nightmare; imagine being overwhelmed, succumbing to the biting mouths filled with jagged bloody teeth and the realization that it’s your own blood they maws are red with. Imagine the sheering pain as they tear away your flesh from your very bones only for them to stop feeding on you when your body finally goes cold.
Now imagine being aware of everything that’s going on the whole time without the hope of release. Because unlike everybody else, you’re special. You can’t die.
Imagine waking up several hours later and the horde has moved on, and your body, my body, completely mended—as if nothing had ever happened.
Except the emotional scars tearing through your psyche, from having been awake for every bloody minute of getting eaten alive, is trapped in your memory—and this damage is lasting. It’s not the sort of thing you just walk off and shake out of your head. It closer to a rape—of being defiled—of being powerless to prevent your ruin. But even though you come out alive, the trauma is everlasting. So then you wake up, and every moment after that amounts to you coping with it. Trying not to let the scar tear open again and let all the pain come flooding back.
That’s the nightmare I have to live with.
Even if you get bit, gods forbid, you’re still luckier than those poor sobs who can’t fucking die. Not dying in a world of living dead—that’s the real curse.
And the fact that they can hurt you—again and again—well, some days it just makes you want to rage against the world. It makes you want to douse yourself and everything around you in gasoline an light up. It makes you want to scorch every corner of the Earth and burn the whole bloody thing down to the ground so all that remains is a cinder orbiting a star in the cold part of the galaxy—and only then would you be satisfied.
You’re probably wondering how I found myself in such a situation. Well, as embarrassing as it is to say this, chock it up to carelessness. It all came about when I happened to run into Mizuki’s older brother, Takahiro. Let’s just say he wasn’t keen on seeing me again after what I did to his little sister. Payback is a bitch, as they say.
But I get it. Family is family, even if they are psychotic lunatics without a shred of humanity left. And to be honest, I expected Takahiro to make an attempt sooner. What I wasn’t expecting was that he had the stones to ambush me. In the few months since I killed his sister, it’s almost as if, as if he had studied her notebook on how to be a vindictive asshole. I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Or the other bad apples, for that matter.
As it turns out, Mizuki’s sweet, big brother Takahiro proved himself to be a tyrant in his own right. I always pegged him as a dimwit. Sure, he had the looks, but the brains—that was Mizuki’s department. Now I see that I should have given him more credit.
It was the end of the week, and so I had taken three of my men to Chiba ward to a raid one of the local warehouses. It was no big deal, since it was a warehouse we’ve been to before, and we knew just what to expect. But seeing as how it’s the end times and all, I felt it was probably better to be safe than sorry. So my men were heavily armed. Sub machine guns, swords, knives, I even made sure they had body armor on.
None of this does shit against good old fashioned C4 explosives however. Or so I found out the hard way.
My men were instantly blown into mince meat pie. I only fared slightly better and came out a living charcoal husk. Rising off the floor, I saw two things that unnerved me. First was my men dripping from the walls in wet meaty chunks. Second was seeing the grinning face of Takahiro looking down at me from the second story service entrance. He was standing there with his clan of Banjin rebels—laughing at the fact that they had finally done in the infamous Princess Gangster.
But what really torqued my chain was that goddamn smile of his. He knew he had outwitted me, and he was reveling in the victory. But I didn’t have time to curse or swear I’d get revenge, because at that very instant, when he smiled, that’s when they flooded the main storage area with at least six or seven hundred of relentless living dead.
I did my best to fight them off, but in my condition, I was quickly overrun by the swarm—and it was feeding time.
I guess it is true what they say, revenge is a dish best served cold. But the way I see it, this whole an eye for an eye business gets old real fast. If I go after Takahiro, his people will just come after me, and this endless chain of senseless stupidity will go on for as long as it takes someone to grow some sense or until everyone has killed everyone else off.
There are more important things worth fighting for than one’s honor. Besides, honor isn’t something that is earned. Respect is. Honor amounts to little more than being raised to a lofty position through praise and adoration, and all the hot steam that’s been blown up your ass, regardless of whether it has been earned. Respect on the other hand is harder to come by. You have to work for it. It requires building trust—and that means keeping your word.
So the way I see it, I either have to track and hunt down every single Banjin in this goddamn city and, for good measure, kill the whole lot of them—or I have to let bygones be.
As hard as it is, I’ve chosen to allow Takahiro and his band of rebels to go free. For now, at any rate. And to be honest, it’s not like I had to really think about it that long and hard. I mean, I don’t’ want to kill people over stupid things like territorial spats and silly blood vendettas. Not when human life is as endangered as it is. But at the same time, I know I have to send a clear message, so I’ll do the next best thing. In fact, I already have.
This very morning I gave the word to have all our storage units, including every major warehouse we keep our food stockpiles in, fortified with my army of loyal Yakuza.
Hell, I’m trying to rebuild the biggest city on the planet one block at a time, and I don’t have the time or energy to run off on silly revenge missions. Revenge takes time, energy, and resources. It’s a hard business. And I have better things to do.
So this is what I have in play. I’ve placed twelve armed guards at nine food storage facilities and have effectively locked out all Banjin from our local trade routes, effectively cutting them off from doing business with anyone inside the city. This trade embargo will send a strong message that I mean business. You’re either with me or you’re against me.
Now Takahiro and his band of Banjin have to make a decision. Either surrender to my demands of surrender or starve to death. Of course, there’s a third option. They could simply leave the city altogether and never show their faces here again, which would be fine by me. Somehow I doubt that will be Takahiro’s next move—especially after he hears that I survived.
The bottom line is, the next move is theirs.
I’m Saeko Sakaguchi, but everyone just calls me Princess Gangster. If you’re reading this, count yourself among the lucky ones. You’ve survived this long. That’s no small feat. In the meantime, I welcome you to my humble, zombie infested, city. The most dangerous place on Earth: Tokyo—Land of the Living Dead.
***September 18, 2019 (Z.E.)
Asphalt, Ash, and Adrenaline Fumes
You wouldn't believe half the stuff I've seen. If I told you, you’d probably think I’m pulling your leg. But I've seen it all.
Take for example the time I came across a transvestite zombie wearing a far too tight blue Tommy Hilfiger one piece, bright red heels, and a frizzy yellow wig which in no way matched the four a.m. stubble on his face. Or the time I ran across an army of undead clowns, escaped from a circus gone to hell and back again. If clowns unnerve you, try a whole army of blood soaked, twice mutilated, murky painted mimes with red grinning faces and even redder teeth and an appetite for flesh.
Now, today was another one of those kind of days. Hell, it's embarrassing to even talk about it. Cutting across town, and tired of taking the long way around, I decided to take a shortcut through the old abandoned postal office. Only, I had made a horrible mistake. You see, it wasn't the postal office I had wondered into. Rather, it was an inner city primary school.
Imagine my horror when I entered into the den of a pack of starving cannibal tots, all of them falling into the aforementioned category of D-biters. For some reason the little one’s don’t get stiff. They’re fast. Vicious. And most certainly lethal.
So there I was, sprinting like I was gunning for that red tape, hurdling desks and tables and what not, until I made it to the large windows and, well, let's just say it wasn't my most graceful moment. Desperate to get out alive, I cannon-balled through the glass window, getting lacerated in the process. To make matters worse, I overshot the goddamn fire escape. It didn't help I was on the sixth floor either.
Six stories and half a second later, I hit the pavement with a bone shattering thud. The air was knocked out of me and the only thing I heard were my own bones crunching under the weight of my body. Immobilized, I waited for my body to heal itself. That’s one of the perks of being immune to the Resurrection virus. Instead of getting undead we get better. An ironic twist of fate in what many consider to be an unthinkable curse. A curse of being destined to forever be alive in a world of living dead.
It doesn't mean we can’t die. Take our heads off or put a bullet between our eyes and we drop like any regular ole zombie. Not being immortal is a huge relief, believe you me, but we’re pretty damn impervious to most anything else you might throw at us.
But don’t think being immune is all sunshine and walks in the park. I may be immune to the virus but that doesn't mean it’s not inside me. I am contaminated, tainted by the Resurrection virus, and I can still infect others. I'm a carrier. Instead of turning into the undead however, the virus somehow speeds up my immune system, including my metabolism, and my ability to heal. The hard part is ignoring all the goddamn pain. I might heal fast, but I still feel every sharp twinge and every bone shattering blow. Sometimes the pain is so intense that I feel like puking out my fucking guts. Ever experience pain like that?
But here’s my dirty little secret … I relish it. The pain is real. It’s the ever constant reminder that I’m still kicking. Alive.
So there I was, lying dazed and confused amid a smattering of broken glass. Suddenly it started raining children. Many of them splattered. Their entire bodies exploding like wet water balloons. Others felt the crunch, like I did. The problem was this, the ones that didn't pop didn't die, and so here I was, dragging my paraplegic ass across sharp asphalt. My legs got shredded in the process. By the time I made it half a block my thighs looked like hamburger meat.
Behind me, inching toward me at an aggravatingly persistent pace, the hungry mouths of a dozen or so undead primary schoolers. And don’t you dare think about giving up. If one of them latches on, they’re harder to shake off than a goddamn leach.
Once, about two years ago, I was pinned down by an sniper trying to collect on a hit put out by a rival gang. The only way I could get out was by blowing through the floor and falling down to the room directly beneath. I had landed in a daycare for preschoolers and emerging from the rubble, I suddenly discovered I had three of the leaches draining the life from me. The poor things were too small to chew, as they were turned before their jaw muscles could fully develop, so they bit in and just began suckling the crimson stuff from my veins. I tried to pry them off, but weakened by the blast and the subsequent blood loss, I had no choice but to dispatch with the creatures.
Some days I pity the parents who are still out there looking for their lost children, hoping against hope they are, somehow, alive and well. But whatever remains of this world, one thing is for certain, such hopes amount to little more than pipe-dreams. Sometimes you have to wake up and face reality head on.
Which brings me back to the pain. The pain of living. The pain of life pulsing through your veins. Every throbbing reminder telling you that the moment the pain ceases so does your existence. And if you’re one of the lucky ones, you stay dead.
In the fallout of the Resurrection virus, many opted out of the living nightmare by taking their own lives. I'd be lying if I said I didn't envy them. See, the thing with pain is, if it doesn't go away you wish for nothing more than death. You wish for escape. At some point the pain has to let up. It just has to, because if it doesn't then it’s no longer a state of pain—it’s a state of existence--one of perpetual misery.
Truthfully, I don’t blame those who opted to take the easy way out. How could I? When things get tough and it doesn't seem like there's any way out, just like earlier today when my legs were shot, and I’m scraping along the pavement leaving a blood trail so that everything within a two block radius could smell that delectable copper scent of breakfast, lunch, and dinner, those are the times where a quick and easy out seems like a good call.
By about a block, yeah, one measly block, I realized there was no way in hell I was going to be able to fend off the growing numbers of undead I was attracting. Not in my condition. So I looked for a way out. Easy. Hard. It didn't matter.
That's when I looked up and there it was!
About three meters away sat a larger tanker truck. So I crawled my way to it, but my kneecaps had turned to mush, so using the sheath of my sword as a makeshift crutch, I was able to prop myself up just high enough to undo the cap. Then, I crashed back down under the pouring waterfall of gasoline, leaned against the massive tire, and lit myself a cigarette.
I don’t need to tell you how shocked I was when I woke up. Two white eyes looking out of the charcoal cinder of what used to be a human being. Gasping for air I sat up, brushed the ash off my face, and looked around at the destruction I had left in my wake. It was a miracle I hadn't blown myself into smithereens, but apparently it has something to do with being at the epicenter of a rather large explosion. The oxygen gets sucked out as the plumes of flame expand out all around you, creating a nice little nucleus to hide inside. But that brief moment at the epicenter of the blast seems like an eternity in hell—and then there is that unfathomable pain which registers just after you become aware that your skin and muscles are melting right off your bones. It’s not the sort of pain I’d wish on anyone.
I don’t know how long I was out for, but when I came to the horde which was slowly creeping up on me had been completely decimated. Burnt up. Nothing of them remained but the blackened residue of their bodies—ghostly shadows singed onto the surrounding scenery. It would almost be tragic if it wasn't for that fact that they were mindless monsters without souls.
A flood of adrenaline rushed over me and I sprang to my feet. Luckily, the blast pushed me back onto my sword, and my body shielded it from the bulk of the blast. It’s one of the few times I've felt… I dunno… like something or someone was watching out for me.
At any rate, I picked up my sword and took a few wobbly steps before finding my legs. My muscles burned as they continued to heel, but a few minutes of getting my heart rate up and suddenly the dark charcoal began to fall off me in large black flakes. Shedding my scorched husk I emerged a pristine white figure. I also happened to be stark naked.
Now, to be completely honest, on a typical day I wouldn't be caught dead strolling around in my birthday suit, but on that day it didn't bother me that I didn't have a thread to bare. I felt right at home in my skin. Probably for the first time in my whole bloddy life. But I knew I would have to find something in the way of clothing, and so I strolled up the empty street for several blocks looking for a department store. That’s when I came across the student outlet store, one of the many places in this sprawling city that sells school uniforms for high school kids. Or, at least they used to. Now they’re just stockpiles for countless unused uniforms, and seeing as how I go through one per day on average, I had no choice but to use my katana to cut the chain off of the door.
Picking out a navy blue and green plaid skirt, a white blouse, and a sash with a matching clip-on ribbon, I used a handkerchief to wipe away any unwanted soot and then dressed. It felt good to be back in my trademark look, and I couldn't help but stop to gaze at myself in the dressing room mirror.
It’s a strange thing. One day you’re starving, and looking for anything you can get your hands on to eat, and the next day you’re worried about whether or not your fat ass will still fit into your old schoolgirl uniform. Sometimes I think I’m losing my mind. But I guess surviving the zombie apocalypse does that to a girl.
You’ll be pleased to know that this twenty-one year old still fits into her old high school uniform. Sure, it probably sounds silly to you, but I literally let out a huge sigh of relief. I know what you must be thinking, who entertains worries about watching weight at the end of the world? Little victories like this count though. Especially when it seems you’re losing the war on every other front. Besides this, what can I say, old habits die hard, and certain ones stubbornly stick with you. Which reminds me, I’m out of cigarettes.
My name is Saeko Sakaguchi, but the world knows me as Princess Gangster. Some people pray to me thinking I’ll be their salvation while others flee from my sight as if I was the devil incarnate. But regardless of whether you think I’m a tyrant or a saint, everyone can agree on one thing, I’m not to be trifled with.
If you’re reading this, count yourself among the lucky ones. If I'm alive next week, I'll do my best to find the time to write another entry. This whole keeping a diary thing is starting to grow on me.
***September 5, 2019 (Z.E.)
The Lie that Destroys
Don’t think that I forgot. You are probably wondering why would I raise the issue of killing my best friend only to drop the subject. Well, a couple of things. I couldn't actually talk about it until after the fact, and well, also because it’s not something I feel comfortable talking about.
After Kevin decided to stay in San Francisco to help Alyssa and the Gunslinger regain control of the city and re-open the ports so that a new supply trade between Vancouver and Hawaii could be re-established, I returned to Japan on the first cargo ship to set sail since the outbreak.
While on board I met a young man named Takahiro Suzuki. He was thirty four and good looking. One of those well-built athletic type. I later learned that he was an avid swimmer. Which probably explains why the sex was so damn amazing. His stamina was oh-my-fucking-god-I-can’t-believe-this-is-my-third-orgasm kind of good.
Needless to say being penned up on a boat for two weeks wasn't a total waste of time.
After returning to my motherland, Takahiro introduced me to his sister Mizuki Suzuki. Mizuki and I hit it off instantly and we stayed friends even after her brother and I broke it off. What can I say, the only thing Takahiro and I had in common was the boat. After that, things went cold fast. But his sister was something else. Mizuki was everything I ever wanted in a friend. A lover. And a partner.
And yesterday I had no choice but to…
It’s so damn hard to say what I did. But I was left no choice. You see, Mizuki had lied to me. It was an unforgivable lie. A lie so dark and twisted that I could hardly believe my beloved Mizuki would be the type to…
I mean, it’s not like I’m an idiot. One of the things that comes with being the leader of a crime organization is that you learn how to read people. And I got damn good at it. It became an instinct to me. Reading people was second nature, and I still beat myself up over the fact that Mizuki, wonderful, happy, bubbly and bright Mizuki turned out to be my goddamn Moriarty.
She blinded me with love. Love used, in this case, as a horrible weapon. My ability to read her through the blind-struck love I felt for her caused me to make one of the greatest mistakes in my new positions as Princess Gangster.
Mizuki was an assassin. She came into my room one night and, as per usual, we made love. After I fell asleep I awoke to hear her having a conversation on the phone. As I aroused myself I made an attempt to reach over for a cigarette but found that I had been zip tied to the bed.
At first I thought it was some sort of prank. I called out her name, but Mizuki simply ignored me. After her conversation she turned toward me and stared at me with cold, unfeeling eyes. Those were not the eyes of Mizuki, but the eyes of a heartless killer.
Then she came over to me, opened a small pouch, and pulled out a syringe with tainted blood. She informed me that it was quite deadly, and that it contained a fast acting strain of the Resurrection virus. I would be sure to turn in a matter of minutes and then she would kill me, untie me, then claim she acted in self-defense.
Her plan was simply to position herself high up in the ranks of the Yakuza and act as an informant for a rival gang of loyalists who simply called themselves the “Banjin” which means “People from the North.”
Their goal is simple enough. They want to re-establish a limited government, so they can vote on distributing food, rebuild communities, and begin living like normal people again. The problem is, they want to include the zombies as “citizens” in this new model. So ideally, some of the distributed food would be going to them. Namely, living people.
That’s right—the Banjin think zombies have rights. And they want to allow for their existence. What’s more, they want to feed you to them. Of course, this I cannot abide. Anyone who views the monsters as anything other than a plague which needs to be eradicated is, in my mind, no better than the monsters themselves.
Unbeknownst to me at the time the Banjin were setting themselves up to infiltrate my organization and then, little by little, dismantle it from the inside.
All this I could have forgiven Mizuki. In fact, I would have gladly run off with her, left Japan, and found some small corner of the globe where the infection had not spread yet and we could have lived happily in a state of solitude.
Of course, now I know it was just all a pipe dream. But my dear Mizuki went ahead and followed out her orders like a good little saboteur and gained my trust only to betray me. Having trapped me, she plunged the syringe full of infected blood into my mother-fucking neck and had to gull to laugh at me—like she had one upped me. As if she had gotten away with it. But there is a distinct difference between gaining advantage and taking advantage.
What Mizuki didn’t know however, was that I was one of the ten percent—one of the ten percent who have a natural immunity to the Resurrection virus. When nothing happened she freaked. When I snapped my bonds as if they were made of paper, she tried to run.
She ran straight to the roof of our forty story condominium that we were living in at the time, and before I had come to she had called in back up. Soon enough the Banjin sent in an S-64 Skycrane helicopter—a weird dragonfly looking machine—which carried a massive intermodal container under its steel belly. The kind that cargo ships carry.
Dashing out of the way, I jumped, tucked, and rolled and narrowly avoided the steel crate as it came crashing down onto the roof. Lodged partway into the rooftop of the building, sweet little Mizuki clambered onto the container and opened its doors. A flood of agitated zombies spewed out of the container and made their way toward me. There were at least a dozen of them.
And they weren't the nice kind either.
They were what we have come to call D-biters. The “D” stands for “dash” because, well, they can fucking run. They’re terrifyingly fast.
As far as we know the undead have evolved into three distinct categories. First there are the zoms, or alternatively called dead-heads, which consist of your classic bumbling, stumbling, nomadic biters. Second are the D-biters, who can chase you down like a cheetah chasing down a gazelle. Deadly as they are terrifying, but they’re easy to detect and so easy enough to avoid. Third are the Alpha-strain. If you run into an alpha, you’re most likely dead. They have the ability to regenerate, or heal, a lot like those of us who are immune to the Resurrection virus. They also morph into a de-evolved lizard like form. Grow wings. And their bites burn like acid.
Don’t ask me how it works. I don’t know. I’m not a scientist. All I know is that it has something to do with the Omega gene.
Immunity from the contagion depends exclusively on whether or not you have the Omega gene in your DNA. As for the Alphas, there seems to be a small fraction of people, less than 3%, whose Omega gene contains a bizarre mutation that still allows for zombification, but also prompts a retrograde evolution where vestigial traits come back. They look less like zombies than monsters, but the fact which remains is that they can spread the virus.
If the phrase Living Nightmare comes to mind, you’re not alone in that assessment. Even for people like me, immune to the virus, I can guarantee that the things earn the name Living Nightmare, because they are.
If you ever hear somebody boasting they've survived an encounter with a Living Nightmare, you can be certain about one of two things. Either they are a major bad-ass and someone you want on your side, or they are a mother-fucking liar who thinks that big-headed bragging about non-existent feats will give them street cred.
But if there’s one thing I hater almost more than zombies its goddamn liars. Which brings me back to our lovely little Mizuki—a lying snake in the grass.
As her ambush of D-biters came streaming out of the metal container, I set to task slashing the skulls of their undead faces in half. However, this distraction gave Mizuki the time she needed to make her escape.
Betrayed by my best friend and with a broken heart, I set out on a vendetta to find Mizuki and repay her the favor.
It took two months but I finally tracked her down. I discovered where she was hiding by rekindling my relationship with her brother, who—although wasn’t part of the Banjin—still kept in touch with Mizuki. It was only a matter of time before I found out where her base of operations was.
Looks can be deceiving. I learned that the hard way. Sweet innocent Mizuki turned out to be a venomous viper. But she picked the wrong girl to strike at. After all, if I lost my entire empire to such a charlatan, then I wouldn't have the reputation I do. As such, I can’t afford anything other than a razor sharp image and an attitude tougher than steel. Cross me, and I don’t take it lightly.
So like I said, I repaid Mizuki in kind. But instead of dropping one cargo container on her secret lair, I dropped twenty.
Hey, like I said, being the head of my own empire comes with its perks. I have nearly unlimited access to all the technology that remains, and the manpower to dole out tenfold what I receive. In this case, twenty-fold After all, I also pride myself on a certain amount of flair. You can’t be a princess in this day and age without a modicum of style. Because that would be sacrilege.
Needless to say the D-biters decimated the Banjin’s secret base. It was an old bomb bunker in Hokkaido, built as a safeguard for important dignitaries if North Korea ever decided to bomb the hell out of Japan.
But I blew open their concrete doors and let swarms of the undead inside. After that I stood outside and waited for the screams to subside. After silence overcame the facility, I waited for her.
When she stepped out, bloody and bruised, I had my men seal up the doors to contain the monsters. Then it was just me and her.
I remember it well, because it was cold as hell. The snow began to snow just as the sun started to set and there, standing in the twilight hour amid twinkling snowflakes was my precious Mizuki. I’ll never forget the sadness in her eyes.
But I could tell her tears weren’t because of any kind of regret for what she had done. She didn't regret her betrayal. The only thing she regretted was her failure. I would have gladly embraced her in my arms if she had shown even the slightest sign of remorse for her immense betrayal. Would I have ever forgiven her? Probably not. But I would have let her live.
But instead—she mocked me—by crying for her failure instead of saying sorry for breaking my heart.
Bitten in the escape, she stood before me and pleaded for me to put her out of her misery before she turned. Before she lost her mind. Before she became her true self. So I obliged her dying wish.
Sliding my blade through her chest, she gurgled, and as blood began to trickle down her lips we both sank to our knees. Perched upon the newly strewn blanket of snow, I kissed her blood stained lips and then whispered into her ears an emotionless “Goodbye.”
It was the least I could do for a liar and a lover.
My name is Saeko Sakaguchi. I don’t always like having to do the things I do, but I think you’ll find it’s a necessary evil. I wish it wasn't I wish things like love and kindness were still options, but in a fallen world where undead monsters reign supreme, fear is the new Lord. Fear is legion. And you can either cower in subservience before it or rebel against it.
So I choose to continue the fight. If you’re reading this now, count yourself among the lucky. And whatever you do, don’t give into fear. If you do, you may just find yourself on the other end of my blade.
August 23, 2019 (Z.E.)
Blood. Guts. And Death.
How did it happen? That’s what everybody wanted to know after the Resurrection virus consumed over half of the planet. Where did it come from. Who was responsible?
The truth is that it was a combination of events that daisy-chained into an explosive situation, and once the fuse was lit it was just a matter of time before it all went to hell in a handbasket--goodbye world and hello death and destruction.
Having been one of the lucky few to read Alyssa Brigg’s diary, I have pieced together the things I learned about the Omega gene with what I was able to find out on my own. It goes something like this…
At the beginning of the 21st century, in order to feed the world’s booming population, meat production was increased tenfold. Subsequently this put a huge strain on the environment, and as virologists dumped more and more antibiotics into the animals, the more viruses became immune to them. Now as I understood it, 70% of all antibiotics produced were used on farmed animals, not humans, and these antibiotics were practically pumped into the animals which were to be slaughtered for meat production. The exact sort of meat you would buy at our local supermarket. A steak. Some minced hamburger. You name it. If it was a meat product, it had been saturated with antibiotics.
Needless to say it was only a matter of time before the antibiotics failed. After all, the viruses simply were quicker than the scientists at adapting. Once they realized antibiotics were a lost cause, scientists started messing with gene therapy. After all, instead of doing the sensible thing and using the millions of acres of land to grow produce for human consumption instead of corn for animal feed, scientists just started manipulating the genes of the animals themselves. The created super-animals with super-immune systems. And everything was good. At least for a time.
Meanwhile, in China, the unthinkable happened. The Chinese government was tinkering with two of the most deadly strains of viruses ever discovered by man. The bird flu and swine flu. They successfully combined the two, just to show that creating a super-virus in the lab was possible.
Never mind how it happened. But it happened. The super-virus got out. Then, as you can imagine, eventually this super-virus found its way to the aforementioned super-animals. And well, then the rest, as they say, is history.
By the time they had the Omega gene ready to inoculate against the viral epidemic, things took a sudden turn for the worst. The super-virus had hybridized with common rabies, and had grown into an uncontrollable chimera. One which could be spread from animal to animal as well as animal to human.
Soon enough the animal clinics were overflowing. Hospitals were unable to keep up with the number of cases coming in. Then… well… then it was already too late.
The animals had all gone mad. Everyone was biting everything in sight. People. Other animals. Even the birds turned on each other, like hungry piranhas, they devoured each other and ate each other alive.
At first the news called it a new strain of rabies. But the truth is that it was much, much worse. It was a super-virus that could infect every single living thing on the planet.
Flash forward to ten months later and meat farms were incinerating all of their livestock. Pillars of black smoke raised high into the sky all across the U.S., China, Australia, and much of Europe. But burning the poor animals didn’t help. The virus was already unleashed.
Jump ahead six months, and then people started getting sick. But unlike the genocide of animals, governments weren’t willing to start sending entire populations of humans into the furnaces. So back to the gene-therapy. The final attempt to give humans super-immune systems to fend off the super-viruses.
Goddamn them. They succeeded. But it was already too late.
People had already begun to eat each other. Ironic, considering the whole things started to satiate the carnivorous appetite of the human race.
But the horror of people tearing each other to shreds was just the beginning. After a couple of bloody weeks which seemed to endlessly drag on, as the virus decimated entire populations, as cities crumbled and it was every man, woman, and child for themselves… something unprecedented occurred. Those who had died began to resurrect.
Nobody knows exactly how the virus functions. But once the person, regardless of their physical condition, the virus has a way of calling a person back from the dead—which is why we call them the living dead. Once the infected person reawakens they are little more than a mindless monster with one simple desire—to eat meat.
Governments sent their militaries in to cleanse entire cities in the hopes of cutting off the viral contagion before it had a chance to spread. Quarantine zones were set up to try and get as many of the uninfected out before “The Cleansing” was initiated.
As cities burned to the ground, bands of hardy survivors grouped together to better survive the surrounding chaos, and they did the only thing they could do—try not to get bit.
I was a high school girl student in Japan when the initial outbreak occurred. I remember it well, because it was the day I was almost raped. If it wasn’t for a nice American boy named Kevin Benjamin Russell who helped me escape, I would have surely been another statistic, another victim of man’s unbridled, unthinking cruelty.
But Benjamin put up a fight. At least he tried to.
As it happened, he got the shit kicked out of him, and was knocked unconscious trying to fend off my attackers.
While Kevin lay unconscious on the pavement at my feet, I was tied up, sucker-punched in the gut, gagged, and stripped of all my clothes. I was humiliated in front of my attackers who could only view me as a piece of meat. But then … there he was. The most unlikeliest of saviors.
A dark figure silhouetted by the setting sun atop the hill at the end of the street. His moan penetrated the jeers of my attackers and distracted them enough that they turned to confront this rude intruder. That’s when the first zombie I had ever seen stepped forth and proceeded to eat my attackers alive.
Luckily Kevin regained consciousness just in time to untie me and we got the hell out of there. Looking back, we saw the tattered salary man perched atop of his prey, tearing my attacker’s eye out of his socket as he screamed for us to save him.
What a joke. The dickwad tries to rape me and then asks for my help? Let’s just say he got what he deserved.
The next day the news was reporting that Tokyo was in full lock-down. No one in or out. Every airport in Japan had been frozen, and the shipyards were jammed packed with freighter vessels double parked. At first we thought it might be terrorists. North Korea perhaps. But then we soon realized what was really happening, and it was far worse than we expected.
People turned on each other. I remember Kevin and I running past a preschool only to see a swarm of children tear down one of the female teachers like a swarm of damned locusts descending upon their next meal. She reached her hand out toward us as she tried to tear herself from their meat claws. It was as if she was beckoning for us to save her, as if I would only take a chance and reach my hand out and clasp hers. But she was overpowered by the mass which just pulled her back. As she fell backward into the swarm I will never forget the horrible sense of fear which came over me as I watched those petrified eyes of hers slowly disappear. All I could do was watch. And then she was gone.
I felt horrible just leaving her like that. But I was too scared to do anything. Besides, if I had tried to save her one of two things would have happened. Either I would have wound up exactly like her, overpowered by the hungry swarm, or else, I would have succeeded. Saved her, and then hours later, she would have unexpectedly turned on me and killed me anyway.
Tears streaming out of my eyes, Kevin and I did the only thing we could, and fled. We ran and ran, and we didn’t dare look back.
And that’s how it all began.
This is Saeko Sakaguchi. My nickname is Princess Gangster, Warlord of the island nation of Japan—an inherited title I can assure you. You may call me Sae. Most of my friends do. You may have heard about me, but if not, I lead the resistance here in Tokyo. And I am writing to warn you: Avoid Tokyo at all costs. It’s a lost cause. The city is fallen. Nothing remains here but twelve million hungry souls. None of them friendly. I repeat, do not come to Tokyo. It’s a deathtrap.
If you hear from me again, then count yourself among the lucky. Until then, stay vigilant, stay safe, and whatever you do—don’t get bit.
August 15, 2019 (Z.E.)
Sex. Killing. Cigarettes.
Sex. Killing. And cigarettes. Those are the things I'm good at. The things I'm bad at? Well, relationships for starters. I would tell you to ask my ex-boyfriend, but that would sort of be, like, impossible considering I killed him. But don't think I'm a psychopath or anything. It was a valid kill. He turned into a zombie... and well... goodbye sweetheart.
Like I said, I'm bad at relationships. Good at killing. My name's Saeko Sakaguchi and to the rest of the world I'm known better as Princess Gangster, leader of the Yakuza, victor over the Blood Queen, sovereign ruler of a fallen city, and world renowned monster slayer.
But that's not why I'm writing this damn journal. What I really needed to say ... what I really need to tell you... well, it can wait until I finish my cigarette. But when I do, I promise you, the creepy whacked out $#!t I'm about to tell you will have your skin crawling and you locking your doors. But first things first.
Shit. I singed another hole in my favorite skirt. The navy blue with green plaid stripes. I may have to take smoking off the list of things I do well. Shit, shit, shit. But hell, I still can blow a goddamn magnificent smoke ring.
At any rate, the reason I am writing this diary is because my friend Alyssa Briggs, yes that Alyssa Briggs, the same Alyssa Briggs who helped reclaim Hawaii and is currently hunting down the dead-heads of the great northern territories in what used to be the Western United States. She too keeps a diary. Diaries are important. Perhaps more now than ever. She reminded me as much before I left the scorched wasteland of the Northwestern frontier after we defeated the Blood Queen together. After all, everything you could ever wish to know about the devastating effects of the Resurrection virus and the subsequent zombie plague was written down in her diary, and well, that’s a bit of history right there.
History. Stories. That’s what diaries are about. People's stories. Personal ones. Some of them good. Some bad. Some of them painful. Every so often some of it meaningful. Inspiring. But mostly, mostly its meaningless drivel. Irrelevant trivialities which all detail the banal existence of a stranger whose life is so unimportant that we would never consider it special if it weren't for the surrounding events which make life so unpredictable. That's the best part of diaries, after all, the twists and turns, the shock of unfortunate events, and the surprise of unforeseen revelations.
Writing a diary is just one small way of making yourself immortal. Once you've shuffled off this mortal coil and are long gone, it will remain. It will always be there, waiting to be cracked open by some curious soul. Someday, some wanderer will chance upon it perched on some unassuming shelf in some rundown home collecting dust. In that following moment in which they dust off the cover and turn to that first page, you are reborn.
That's the power of stories--and don't you dare forget it.
You see, that’s the thing I wanted to tell you. We’re all just stories in the end. And this is mine. This is the story of how I became the head of the Yakuza, Princess to an entire Island, and leader of the zombie resistance of Tokyo.
It's hot. Forty degrees in Tokyo. Hell, you can see my underwear through my sweat soaked white shirt, but that doesn't matter. I'm currently perched high above the city on a maintenance catwalk high up on the Tokyo Tower. Bellow me are a dozen moaning zoms with their pallid fingers clawing desperately up at me. They smell my perspiration They smell dinner. Luckily I'm high enough up that their moans are faint and barely perceptible. No threat to me now. For now I can relax. Which is why I'm smoking another cigarette while writing.
Honestly I don't know what to write. So I'll just start off with your typical small chitchat. Today was a stereotypical slash and bash exercise. The goal is to use the strength of the clan to isolate pockets of the monsters and, using spiked baseball bats, chainsaws, and choke wire, bind them, blitzkrieg attack them, and then, well, you guessed it: slash and bash. It's a good way to let the boys blow off some steam. Some of them still seem a little bit bitter toward me regarding the fact that I overthrew their warlord and now they have to answer to a girl. But they learned quick enough not to ever question my authority. The first and last person who did that, well, let's just say he won't be walking anytime soon.
Oh, you thought I was going to be all sweet and innocent, didn't you? Don't let my being 21 years old or the fact that I look amazing in a skirt fool you. I don't take shit from anyone. Especially barbarians with low level I.Q.s and a penchant for violence. Give them an inch and they'll take everything you got--including your life. But rule them with an iron fist and they'll be eating out of the palm of your hand. Here in Japan it's about honor and respect. And what trained killers respect most is authority. Without it, they'd devolve into mad animals and kill each other off in petty territorial disputes. It's in their best interest that they find a leader--someone to guide them--rule over them. Keep them from devouring themselves.
You may be wondering how a teenage girl like me got promoted to the top ranks of the Yakuza? Well, it's like this, they had a real evil son-of-a-bitch master known as Ijin Gen. He was gunning for control of all of Tokyo after the outbreak of the Resurrection virus. But he was defeated by a warrior known throughout the land as 'The Dark Angel.' Yes, I've met her. Don't act shocked. She's real.
After his humiliation, he came to me with a proposition of a partnership. But you see, this sick, twisted, son-of-a-bitch had my boyfriend killed, and so of course, in my mind ... when your lover's killer offers you a spot by his side you don't say no. You say yes, and then you kill the mother fracker. So as you probably expected, I gladly accepted his proposition, then at the first chance I got, I cut his mother frakking head off with my sword.
As a consequence of my brash decision I had the unfortunate happenstance to inherit the title of Japan's new warlord, and as my bonus I received an entire army of cold blooded killers who were honor bound--by their own sacred rules--to bend their knees to me. But I'm making the best of it. After all, when you're a second class citizen to the zombie scourge, it never hurts to have an army of ruthless killers on your side.
Tomorrow I’m meeting a dear old friend of mine. Someone who helped change my life forever. Someone I’ll be eternally indebted to. A person I have loved more than life itself. And the worst part of it all is, tomorrow I will be forced to kill them. But that’s tomorrow.
My name is Saeko Sakaguchi, and I am writing to you from the ruins of Tokyo. If you don’t hear from me again, it’s because I’m dead. If you do hear from me again, then I can honestly say that it’s been a good day— for the both of us.
August 13, 2019 Zombie Era (Z.E.)
"Sex. Killing. And cigarettes. Those are the things I'm good at. The things I'm bad at? Well, relationships for starters. I would tell you to ask my ex-boyfriend, but that would sort of be, like, impossible considering I killed him. But don't think I'm a psychopath or anything. It was a valid kill. He turned into a zombie... and well... goodbye sweetheart. Like I said, I'm bad at relationships. Good at killing. My name's Saeko Sakaguchi and to the rest of the world I'm known better as Princess Gangster, leader of the Yakuza, victor over the Blood Queen, and world renowned monster slayer. But that's not why I'm writing this damn journal. What I really need to say... what I really need to tell you... well, it can wait until I finish my cigarette. But when I do, I promise you, the creepy whacked out $#!t I'm about to tell you will have your skin crawling and you locking your doors. But first things first."
(Princess Gangster, A BITTEN universe web series spin-off. Coming soon!)
Tristan Vick is the author of the Bitten Resurrection virus saga as well as the quirky pulp novel The Scarecrow & Lady Kingston: Rough Justice. Princess Gangster is his Resurrection virus spin-off webserial based on the lead character from Bitten 2: Land of the Rising Dead.