TOURIST TRAP

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My name is Amber Jackson, and I never thought of myself as the sort of person to write a note like this, but, well, HERE WE ARE, with me hiding inside Bob's yacht in the harbor. The Good news? Those fucking creatures haven't found me in here. The Bad? I’m rapidly running out of hamburgers and tequila. The food will be gone before the booze, which is good, because if I’ll definitely need some fucking liquid courage if I have to make a run for it.

As if this Tourist Season couldn't get any fucking worse, three days ago, a giant freaky hole opened in the middle of Miami Beach. Whatever it was, it seemed to infect a good portion of the location population, causing them to attack and eat the rest of us. Ew.

Dana said we should try to hold up in the Visitor Center. Sorry Dana (not sorry, Dana!), but the last person I trust right now is the person who's been lying to me about the affair she's been having with the Tourism Board Senior Manager. Oh yeah. I know why Amber stayed stuck behind the front desk while Dana got promoted upstairs. Besides, if my Momma taught me anything growing up in the Glades, it's that you can't protect yourself with tourism pamphlets and postcards. You need real guns.

I went over to Willie's because we both know he's got that twelve gauge behind the bar, but get this – he’d been infected already! Had to put two in him before heading over to the Paramour. Things were bad there, but nobody got hit like the Blackwood. By the time I got there it was more like the fucking Blackhole, what with the portal opening in the middle of their swimming pool. They even got to Alfredo, that hunky lifeguard with the weird nipples.

Gotta say. I'm a little surprised the National Guard hasn't rolled in. Feels like this is part of something bigger. Like what if this is how it starts – what if this is the Soviet invasion? Oh my GOD, is this like some weird reverse Bay of Pigs, but with Cannibal Tourists??

Anyway, I plan on getting the hell outta here. I'm running out of food, everybody's dead, nobody's seen Bob. It's a fucking shitshow. Bob's yacht is out of gas, but I heard they keep a couple of fuel canisters over at the Caiman. If I can find it, I can drive this boat the hell out of here. Wait, these things can't swim, can they?

Wish me luck. If Amber's going down, she's going down like her Momma taught her – kicking, screaming, drinking, and swinging.