I still, even now, can't believe this has actually happened! In the beginning, back when people weren't taking the whole "health scare" thing very seriously—before people saw the evidence of the AM13 virus—I had all kinds of stupid shit said to me.

"It's like you're living in your very own scripted movie, you must be so pleased!"

"Your books have come true!"

"At least you'll have a lot of practice with this whole thing."

And it was always teamed with this stupid, innocuous laugh that drove me crazy. I mean, what the fuck, guys? Seriously?

Yes, I'm a zombie author, but that doesn't exactly mean I ever wanted to end up living within the pages of my books. I actually have a very successful series of young adult apocalyptic novels—five to date—and there was even talk of a film at some point, but that was fantasy. I didn't want this to happen—no one in their right mind would.

The only reasons my books were as popular as they were is because I used my imagination to write them. I didn't base them in any kind of fact or predictions or anything. When I think about me sitting there, revelling in putting my fictional characters—that despite popular belief, I do actually love!—through such hell, it kinda makes me feel sick. My readers, fans, whatever you'd like to call them, have sent me a lot of online...opinions...bordering on abuse over time as each new book came out, and more characters that they'd come to adore and root for, died. I know it was harsh; I tried to tell them as much. But you just don't get through a zombie apocalypse without losing a few people.

And now, we're living through it for real, and I'm seeing for myself how true that really is. I think it's safe to say that it isn't fun, and no, not even I'm finding it exciting.

To even think I could be enjoying a single part of my writing being reality is just ridiculous. From the very first second that I heard about the virus on the news, my blood ran cold. Other people didn't pay much attention to it, even took it as a joke, but something deep inside of me was just beyond fascinated. I didn't believe it—I was like everyone else in that sense—it was just too strange to be true. But to see a zombie virus discussed on the proper news was insane. In a way, it was like seeing my books come to life. So, I kept up to date with the story religiously, the entire time trying to remember that there was no way it could be fact, that it was scientifically impossible, but growing more apprehensive for what the future held at the same time.

Then, it suddenly became clear that everything I'd assumed was false was really happening, and my entire world was shaken upside down. It was like the comfort rug I'd always lived upon had been ripped from beneath me. I felt like my foundation had been whipped away and I lost myself a little along the way.

It's safe to say that I became obsessed. I was like a woman possessed by everything AM13, everything else just took a back seat in my life. Even my books! I stopped writing, stopped checking my texts, I even ignored my social media accounts. Me. The girl who was addicted to Facebook and Twitter. I was online all the time. You know, just in case something vital might be happening somewhere in the world. I never wanted to miss out. Being an introvert, I found the online world intoxicating.

By the time the Lockdown officially started, I was so trapped in my own isolated, scared little world that the quarantine really meant nothing to me.

I decided to trust the Government's plan to lock everyone inside their own homes while they sorted out the virus, implicitly. I truly wanted to believe that everyone showing signs of infection would get themselves to the specialised medical facilities. I convinced myself so strongly that everything was going to be fine—even though, deep down I knew it was unlikely—that I chose to use the time wisely and get back to my work. I was convinced I'd be able to actually get the sixth book written whilst locked inside.

But instead, I simply stared at the page I'd already written a while back, watching the words swim around in front of my face. Then the zombies started to appear outside my window and I couldn't help but watch them, fascinated.

They were disgusting; all bloody and covered in gore and a black sludgy stuff. Some of them had limbs hanging from their bodies and large ripped holes through their torsos. Seeing them snarl, growl, and become desperate for human flesh was worse than anything I'd ever written. Sure, my work was slightly toned down for the younger audience, but I couldn't have even imagined this if I'd tried. I wanted to pretend none of it was real—it should have been easy to, seeing those things was pretty unbelievable—but I just couldn't. I didn't have the coping mechanism that I wanted.

I would've loved to have to used what I was seeing to inspire me in some way—a real life muse, but I just couldn't get past my original paragraph. I just couldn't transfer what I was seeing into my fantasy world. It was like the jigsaw pieces didn't fit. The bit that I'd already written was horrible enough. I'd depicted my newest concept of sick, nasty people using zombie games as a "test" for people to join their group. That probably sounds mad out of context, but as people generally read my books in the right order, it's a perfectly logical idea in that world:

Undead Virus Series by Georgina Blake – Book 6. Title undecided – maybe 'Fearless'?

Kara's chest heaved and her breaths got shorter. The room she found herself in was pitch black and eerily quiet. She tentatively took a step forward, wincing at the echo of each movement. She blinked rapidly, trying to work out what she was supposed to do, but nothing immediately came to mind.

"Hello?" she whispered, unsure of how loud she should talk.

She was answered by a resounding silence. Certain she was alone, she continued moving with more confidence.

She ran her fingers along the ice cold wall, trying to find an exit. The dark was disconcerting and, to be honest, creeping her out a bit. She much preferred being able to see what she was doing.

Suddenly, her fingers stumbled across a steely metal. Kara jumped back, panicking for some unknown reason. When nothing happened, she continued to move her hand along—what was becoming obvious—a chain. As much as she was confused by this, she was also curious, excited almost. Her lips started to tremble, but this time because she was sure she was about to be free of this constricting blackness.

A noise reverberated off the walls and Kara span around, hands in front of her face. This action was completely pointless of course, she still couldn't see anything. As her heart rate slowed down, she started to think she had just invented the noise. That or someone was just trying to mess with her. Her palms were sweating as she fumbled frantically with the chain, shaking and pulling it, no longer caring how loud she was. She just needed this nightmare to be over.

She gave up tugging, tears threatening to spill out, and simply started screaming for help. Her panic levels had reached hysteria and she felt like nothing was going to shake her out of it. She shouted louder and with more determination. Why was everyone ignoring her, God damn it? She was absolutely sure someone could come and help her if they really wanted to.

A growl emanated, so low it could have been in Kara's imagination. The overwhelming stench of rot that accompanied it stunned her into silence. She couldn't even breathe. It suddenly became very obvious to her what was happening, and even though terror filled her entire being, she didn't move, cry, or even really feel. She was just numb and frozen.

The chains started rattling and Kara let out a whimper. She suddenly realised what she had been messing with only moments before, how could she have been so stupid? She staggered backwards, the knowledge that she would only hit stone wall doing nothing to stop her. Her body was just reacting in a natural way, trying to escape danger, even if there was no real option left for her. Her legs felt heavy and her lungs tight. What now?

She slumped to the floor, her back to the wall, not even noticing the cold anymore. Her mind was racing, trying to come up with a solution. She had a little experience in this area of course, but to be honest, up until this point she had been really lucky. Why had she thought this was something she could do?

The circular design of the room meant she had no idea where any of the sounds were coming from; there was just no way of telling. Even though her body had well and truly given up this fight, resigned to its inevitable end, her mind was screaming at her, begging her to fight back. She started whispering to herself, the first sign of madness coming through thick and strong, telling herself there was no point, there was nothing she could do anyway.

Suddenly a drip of pus fell onto her bare shoulder. Kara screeched and cowered away, crawling at the speed of light across the floor, knocking into her attacker's legs on the way. She knew she was quicker of course, that was common knowledge, but she also knew there was only so long she could avoid it. She would get tired long before that bastard would. Many people had been taken out using that tactic.

The growling and movement became more frequent, as if realising she was definitely there had set a firework up her assailant's backside and now it was honing in on its opponent. She stood up, fists flailing in all directions. She knew hand-to-hand combat wasn't exactly ideal, but she just needed to buy herself some time. There had to be something in this Godforsaken room she could fight with, that was the point, wasn't it? She wished her eyes would adjust to the dark, but it was so black in here, she had no hope of that.

Her toe smacked violently into something wooden on the floor. Kara screamed out in pain and started hopping around. How was it possible to stub your toe in a circular room?

That was it!

She suddenly remembered them saying there was always something you could use to defend yourself, however difficult the situation. She bent down and wrapped her hands around the cylindrical piece of wood, a newfound hope filling her heart.

Okay, so it wasn't exactly a gun or a machete, but at least she was no longer completely helpless. She swung the wood aimlessly, a smile playing on her lips. She was going to get out of this mess alive, whatever the cost.

Finally she connected. The squelching sound and splat across her face, of what she could only assume was blood, confirmed this much. The thing grunted as she swung repeatedly, determined to finish this off quickly.

Suddenly, a glaring white light filled the room and she was momentarily blinded. Kara span around, confident of her achievement. She waved the stick above her head, imagining cheers from an invented audience. She stepped towards the light, wondering what her future held...

I've carried the damn notebook with this start to the manuscript with me everywhere I've gone, just glancing at it occasionally, wondering if it'll ever get fully written, if it'll ever stop being reality and start being my little fantasy world once more. I've mentally lived within all of this for so long, but having it happen for real has been nothing short of a nightmare. It's horrible. I hate it.

Every death that happens here is a real loss of life. Every zombie that's roaming the streets used to be someone—a person with a family, a job, a life. Sure, they might be monsters now, but I struggle to see them as just that. I can't see past the human they once were. Whereas most people think that killing them off is good—and don't get me wrong, I know that it's the best chance we have of survival—I find it really difficult to accept. If we carry on the way we are, there aren't going to be many of us left when this is all over.

If this ever ends.

I want to believe it will. I was going to end the apocalypse in my book series eventually, of course. Probably in the normal way that every author seems to go for—finding someone whose blood is immune to the virus and using that to make a cure—I just wanted to get a few more books out first, I still had a lot of ideas. I know, it might seem mad to go for the same finishing formula that everyone uses, but it's a really good ending—a positive one. I just like the idea of someone having something special about them. It symbolises hope in the best possible way.

But of course, this isn't my book series. This is real life. Things can't be scripted. I'm not in control of how it'll end.

The weird thing about all of this is, now I'm living in a horrendous campsite, a little bit like in Sanctuary—the third book I wrote. Although at least in my work, the settlement Liza, Akira, Jack, and the rest of my main group were staying in, seemed like a decent place.

This hell hole was never anything more than that.

As soon as we were flown here and taken onto the island, the weird totalitarian regime was made more than clear. Predictably people didn't like it and there was something of a revolution early on—I use that word for dramatic effect, really it was nothing more than a couple of bullish guys trying to throw around their weight. But they were executed quickly, made examples of.

It was awful to see—fucking horrible to witness people being shot, point blank in the face, but it achieved the desired effect. Now everyone lives in fear, which I'm sure was exactly what they wanted. There are constantly rumours flying around about mistreatment, brutality, rape, someone even told me that they keep zombies in cages like nuclear bombs...anything to keep us in line, all of which have probably come from them too. The elected "police officers" don't help the situation. They encourage this terror by using their power to their advantage.

In all imagined apocalyptic situations, there seems to be a complete breakdown of society where morals fly out of the window and greed and power become the most important things. You just don't ever think that people will really become that. You imagine that people will come together to work for the greater good, and yet here we are, living in a world where people will literally do anything for a piece of the control, leaving the rest of us—the normal people—as pawns in their little game.

I don't know who the fuck this "Government" is—it certainly isn't the weak politicians we had beforehand, the ones whose great idea was to lock everyone inside their own homes—but, much as I hate to admit it, they have actually done some good. The AM13 virus was spiralling out of control, that much is undeniable. At least here, on this small European mystery island they flew us to, we're out of the way. It may be hell, but at least we're alive.

When they announced at the airport that we were going somewhere completely untouched by the virus, I was doubtful. But they were right. I haven't seen a single outbreak here. I've heard about a few, but they are just more stupid rumours. If AM13 was here, I'm sure all of us would have witnessed it.

Of course, the control methods are...unorthodox. I'm not denying that, but maybe that's what's necessary at the moment. I don't know. I certainly don't fancy being in charge of everyone during this crisis! I just keep my head down, trying my best to avoid trouble as much as possible, and keep to myself.

Despite my best efforts to keep away from any kind of danger, I can't stop the constant fear from coursing through my veins. It's just always...there, like a never-ending nightmare. I try to keep brave, but it's too difficult for a wimp like me. In my everyday life, I knew exactly what was going to happen every minute of every day. My schedule was tight, and that was the way I liked it. I prefer to be in control and now I have literally none. Within the next five minutes, everything could change yet again, I could die. That terrifies me.

At one point, there were actually whispers of a cure being discovered, right here in this camp, but that was probably just another thing planted there by them—a tiny piece of hope, planned as just another method of control. I hate how that sucked me in, how quickly I wanted to believe it.

I try not to pay any attention to too much that's going on around me anymore, but then I also try to go about my daily business without my heart thumping painfully in my chest, making it blatantly obvious how petrified I truly am, but that doesn't seem to be working out for me either.

Even now, as I'm being served my paltry meal by a little girl, one who is clearly too young to be at work—she's probably only five or six years old!—I can't bring myself to smile or thank her because my mouth is so dry. My fear is controlling me, just like everyone else.

I hated living among the zombies, but I hate this more. Logically, I know we're in a better position here, but I still can't wait for it to be over.