"The Undead Nazis," by Anonymous

Late August, 1941. Somewhere in France. 

If you find this notebook, I’m already dead. If you can, please give this attached letter to the Roth family in New Jersey. If you find a zombie clutching the notebook, that’s me. Well, was me. Do a guy a favor and kill the thing, would’ya? 

“To Uncle Herman, Aunt Bess, Sandy, and Phil, 

“While moving west, my battalion discovered the zombies in a muddy field around 1200 hours. A commanding officer, the loud one, told us to freeze. One zombie turned around… It had pale green, peeling skin; rotting, yellow teeth, torn clothes, a groan from the depths of hell– why am I telling you this? You already know. You’ve seen them before. 

“Anyway, it must have signaled to its fellow freaks, because they all turned and stared at us with wicked eyes. One of them screeched—a God awful, scratchy sound– and they all ambled towards us like an evil witch; their arms stretched in front of them, as if blindly searching for a light in the dark. A parade of death. 

“We fought like hell, blasting ‘em with everything we had. I was shooting, stabbing, punching, kicking. I wasn’t going down without a fight. But it wasn’t enough; one of them got the jump on me and bit my arm. It hurt like hell, not gonna lie. But I just shot the son-of-a-bitch before running off; I couldn’t bite my fellow soldiers. 

“Currently, I’m strapped down on an army cot waiting for the end. When I turn, someone will end the zombie before I can bite anyone. 

“I don’t regret fighting. But I do regret not coming home. 

“Uncle Herman, I’m sorry for being an ass. You don’t deserve that.

“Aunt Bess, I’m sorry for causing you stress and worry. I hope you can rest with closure.

“Sandy, keep on drawing, kid. You can provide hope in these dark times. 

“Phil… at the risk of sounding mushy, I’ll miss you kid. Don’t worry about me. I’m in good hands. 

“I was never good with ‘goodbyes’ so… love you. 

“Alvin.”

Ok, you who found this notebook. You must have noticed the inconsistencies and lack of details in my story. Here's what actually happened: the commanding officer yelled at us to retreat, causing pandemonium; the men in the back couldn’t hear or see the zombies and nearly got trampled into the ice cold mud as the front lines pushed them down. I did the same. And look where that got me…dying alone… 

I found shelter in an abandoned husk of a building, crouching down by an old fireplace in what was once a living room. I didn’t breathe as I heard the shambling and groaning passing by. I thought for sure this was it, saying my prayers… 

Nothing happened. I almost collapsed with relief, slowly standing up. My ears were ringing like mad, I tell you. That’s probably why I didn’t hear the thing sneaking up behind me. All of a sudden, my left arm exploded in pain, like lava bubbling beneath my skin. I must have screamed, but I can’t recall. All I remember is grabbing my gun and bashing the thing’s head in. 

My body must be nearly transformed by now, but I refuse to look; I’m writing this with a random candle I found. My arm just aches now, but it looks and feels like green, rotten, cottage cheese with bits of expired ketchup on top. Don’t know why that comparison came to mind, but I can’t think of anything else… my mind is already fuzzy on the edges.

You know, it’s strange, but I almost feel at peace. As I slouch against the wall I have no expectations placed on me, nothing to do except, well, die. …look at me getting philosophical. Must be a side effect of death. 

Point is: don’t be like me. Be smart, quick, and aware of your surroundings. Go home to your folks when this is over. Please.