Dear Diary:

It is a year since the infection went global, and all the poor waifs that chose to turn to their uncivilized firearms have all perished. Their ammunition was spent within the first six months, and as nearly all factories are down, production of ammunition is limited.

The fools.

I stand here, sword in hand, within my great castle, the Arundel Mills Mall. Here, I have found more than enough suitable weaponry for my defense. Within these halls, there is a Medieval Times, a place filled with swords and armor which require no ammunition. Chain mail may not block bullets, but it can block the rotten teeth and fingernails of the undead with ease, and the plat armor I could scavenge is practically impenetrable to the creatures; the greater ones are so strong that not even modern armor would protect from their attacks, so practically, I am as well off as any soldier in defense.

I scoff at ammunition. A knife sharpener form a kitchen supply store and my chosen blade, which I have dubbed Dragonfang, are all that I need to leave countless filthy zombies in my wake, dismembered and beheaded. Their teeth cannot pass my armor, yet Dragonfang cuts through their rotting forms like butter. If it were not for some of the larger mutations, I would be next to unstoppable.

Society laughed at me before the infection. They called me a dork, a nerd, and scoffed at my interests in HEMA. Now they come to kneel before my throne, pleading for my protection. Before I was their source of mockery; now, I am their king. I sit in the royal throne of the Medieval Times, casting judgement upon my new subjects. I am fair but firm; I cannot have dissidents endangering our lives by insisting that they have their own way. Such people could be tolerated and ignored in the bygone days of peace, but now, such selfish arrogance will earn them a trip to the torture chamber, or worse, to exile, forced to walk alone in a world filled with the hungry dead, far from the safety of the kingdom.

My executioner has had little to do in the way of punishment, thankfully. He is a twisted man with a predilection for both sadism and theatricality, and has found the most disturbing uses for all manner of things we have looted from the mall. I know not his true name, but he goes by Bloody Ben, and he seems to have quite the chip on his shoulder from society. He usually wears a crude cloth mask, so not many of us have seen his true face. Thankfully, he seems to respect me and my knights, but he is all too eager to dish out punishment to the disobedient subjects, or as he calls them, "normies".

Ah yes, my knights. Thankfully I am not alone in this fight, and several other brave souls who have mastered the blade fight at my side:

Sir Dave the Cunning, a man who worked at a Games Workshop and studied combat tactics in Warhammer tournaments. He is my right-hand advisor, and has led the men into combat numerous times with his talent for strategic planning.

Lady Zuri the Immovable, who uses her hefty weight to become an unshakable wall of defense, and has a religious virtue and faith as unshakable as her form.

Sir Carl the Mad, a fearless man who's life as a homeless crackhead has flipped the tables to make him more prepared for this apocalypse than most people.

Sir Jose the Fox, so named because of his great cunning and trickery, and his talent for luring the undead into his traps.

Sir Ben the Bold, who wields the katana Deathgleam. What time he does not spend fighting he spends training, slicing at whatever we have available with his unique twit on Asian fighting styles. That, or watching anime; he claims it "hypes him up".

We hope to add more knights to our ranks; currently we have a dozen or so squires lined up to be trained for war against the undead legions. But when thing get tough, we knight mount up our horses and charge into the fray, slicing at the undead like a scythe through wheat.

Verily, we have horses; we found them at the Medieval Times establishment. They have been an incredible asset to us in hunting the undead and in travelling great distances when we need to. My chosen steed I have named Firebrand, a lovely and majestic creature who is as lethal to the undead as I, kicking out with deadly hooves and rearing to crush our undead foes.

I shall end my entry here. I am needed on a matter of urgency. If this is my last entry, then faretheewell. I shall die like a true knight, or survive to lead my kingdom into glorious victory. Deus vult, you undead fiends! You face the Knights of Arundel!

That really bugs us. ;)

*Yogurt and cheese have entered the chat* "Life could be worse indeed. Milk might never get pulp, and then where would you get us?"

Everyone else: "We love you guys, but we do our best not to think about how you were made."