| Not Again |
[Jul. 15th, 1990|08:36 pm] |
I woke up to the sound of weeping. Shaneeka had the last watch of the night, as she was always an early riser anyway. I saw her crouching over Sammie’s sleeping bag.
“Shaneeka?” I didn’t want to startle her. This may be a private thing, remembering her own lost little one.
“Molly?” She looked up as I approached and took hold of my hand, pulling me down to place my palm on Sammie’s forehead. It was clammy and hot to the touch. “She’s burnin’ up. She wouldn’t eat last night, and now this. I thought it was over. But now she’s got it.”
I felt the icy shaft of fear spear my heart. Much as it had when Kelly showed the symptoms. Not now. Not Sammie.
I guess we were a bit louder than we intended because in no time Billy was there and Tasha was whining at my side.
“See if you can get some liquids down her.” Billy suggested.
“Pediolyte would be best, and some soup… if her throat starts the swelling.” Shaneeka, our will, was looking lost and less like the warrior woman I’d envisioned her just yesterday morning.
Sammie opened her eyes and they were a bit glassy. “M’ thirsty.”
“Course you are, sweetie.” Shaneeka dug out a bottle of water. “Here, sip at this.”
“M’ head hurts.” Now tears were welling in Sammie’s big blue eyes. I lost them in the shimmer clouding my own vision.
“Pediolyte, children’s Tylenol, cough syrup, soup got it.” Billy was checking his pistol and shotgun. We’d passed a small town about fifteen miles back. There was a drug store there. But it was also back in the direction we had come. With a human monster possibly being out there.
“Maybe someone should go with,” I suggested.
Billy gave a kind of tired smile as he pulled his long hair back, winding a leather thong around the improvised ponytail. “Honestly, anyone else would slow me down. I’ve got the training you folks don’t. But together you should be alright. Just make sure at least one of you keeps watch.
Right. That was my job then. I could fight hand to hand and I had Bob. I may be learning to shoot a gun, but I felt more at ease with the sword. Even after what I’d done with it. Maybe even because of that. Shaneeka was totally focused on Sammie, and her own despair. We were all barely holding it together, but getting all of us dead wouldn’t help little Sammie at all. |
|
|
| Fear expanded |
[Jul. 14th, 1990|09:16 pm] |
| [ | Current Location |
| | Greenville, Ohio | ] |
| [ | mood |
| |  worried | ] |
| [ | music |
| | I Wanna Be Sedated by the Rmones | ] |
It seems we can only get 70 to 80 miles at a good clip before hitting either a roadblock or accident blocking the way. Now Chris, Shaneeka, Sammie and Tasha rode in the Jeep. Billy and I had found two motorcycles. They seemed to think I was too small for one to start. But I knew how to ride. I suppose I could have ridden behind Billy, but I didn’t like feeling dependant. I mean, I have formed a friendship with them all in the past four days. It was impossible not to when you were the only five people around. Besides, they were all likeable people. And we seemed to form a pretty good unit.
Billy Twofeathers was our brain. He used to be a Army Ranger before retiring with an honorable discharge. He gave us all, except Sammie of course, lessons in how to shoot, gun safety and maintenance. He knew survival skills, and improvisation, and was quick on his feet. Shaneeka Thomas was courage and determination. She was tough in a way I don’t think I ever could be. Billy said she was a deadly shot by her second lesson. She refused to consider any outcome but getting all of us to Nebraska safely. And if force of will could do it, then she’d see us through. Chris was our sense of humor. He seemed to deal with everything with a quick quip or a joke. He kept our spirits up. Sammie was our heart. That little girl had us all wrapped around her fingers. But Shaneeka seemed to… I don’t know… cling to her. She’d lost s six year old daughter to tubeneck. I suppose she was trying to make up a perceived failure to protect the child from what no one could have protected her from, by caring for Sammie. Race meant nothing to either of them, and it was beautiful to see.
I didn’t know where I fit in. Chris laughed and told me I was their zen master. If only he knew how far short I had fallen. How my indomitable will had crumpled to the bathroom floor and cried. But I was leading them all in the beginning poomse in the mornings. The first steps of TaeKwonDo. Billy and Shaneeka were natural students. I suspect Billy because he already knew hand to hand. Even Sammie was included in some basic stances.
Gas wasn’t a problem. It was everywhere. I knew how to siphon it from other vehicles, and how to get it from the reservoir tanks at stations. I love the smell, but may never get rid of the taste of it . Ick.
We’d learned to avoid the traffic disasters that were the larger cities. Just finding an alternate route ate hours out of the day. We were just getting off west 70 when we came across the body.
We’d all seen plenty, although a lot fewer than you’d think. Most people seemed to prefer to die in their homes, in churches, in hospitals. Except for those who died in their cars fleeing to or from cities, or stopped by military barricades. And that massacre on our first day together. This one was a surprise and we weren’t fast enough to shield Sammie. Her high pitched scream tore through us all. And no doubt carried quite a distance.
The body was hung, upside down, from a streetlight. I couldn’t tell if it had been a man or a woman. It was more than naked. It had been skinned. Like in that Predator movie. Only this was real. It was thick with flies.
That’s when I realized, it was only two or three days old. By now we all knew about how bodies decomposed. This was recent. A fellow survivor. And another survivor had to have done this.
I guess I was a bit slower on the uptake and Billy ordered us to book it. We had to get out of there. Poor Sammie’s scream had to have carried. If the monster who had done that were still about…
It took us a long time to get to Greenville. Lots of corn and soybean fields left on their own in this area. Miles of them. The cornfields gave me both hope and a sense of foreboding on top of the one that had us looking over our shoulders.
Sammie had gone quiet the rest of the way here. When we stopped to make camp, she didn’t eat much, and we had to urge her to eat the little she did. Shaneeka was worried. I suggested it might be shock. We’re setting up a watch rotation for the first time. Something more immediate than the dark man is out there. |
|
|
| Ups and downs |
[Jul. 12th, 1990|02:50 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  contemplative | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Toy Soldiers Martika | ] |
"Step by step
Heart to heart
Left, right, left
We all fall down
Like toy soldiers" - Toy Soldiers (C) Martika 1989
You would not believe how much a dog and a four year old as travel partners slows you down when you’re on foot. It took us two hours to get out of Morgantown. The roads were mostly blocked. Even the way I had gotten in was messed up, but instead of backtracking, we wanted to be heading in the right direction. We came across an army road block and Billy put a bandana over little Samantha’s eyes. Told her it was a game. The poor kid saw death and the dead every day. But the remains she saw were victims of tubeneck, an indiscriminant force. Once could almost argue it was nature, though of the four adults, none of us believed that. This… this was evidence of mankind’s own brutality. Of the devaluing of human life when it was obvious that keeping people from escaping was pointless.
They had lined people up and shot them. Like it would have mattered if the poor sick people had left the city. Old people, little kids… jeezus, there was even a baby. Apparently the rest of the people trying to get out had enough and the soldiers looked like they’d been beaten to death. Everyone had the signs of the superflu. They were all dying when they were killing each other. A little past the pile of bodies riddled with bullets, and the broken soldiers there was a black mound. It had once been a pyre. Now it was… vile. It hadn’t burned properly in the end.
“What’s da game?” Sam kept the blindfold on like a good girl.
“Blind-man’s bluff, sweetie,” Shaneeka carried her, all maternal protection. Sam seemed so much smaller, so fragile in the face of these poor murdered souls. I had to look away from the body of a toddler. Nature was doing it’s work, but it didn’t hide the fact that the little body of unidentifiable sex had been shot at least three times.
My stomach had strengthened. I didn’t get sick. But it was only once we were a good half mile past the slaughter that I realized I was silently weeping.
Billy had pulled the bandanna from Sam’s eyes and passed it to me. Chris was wiping his eyes on his sleeve. Even Shaneeka’s gorgeous chocolate complexion had paled and gone a bit grey, though she didn’t cry.
“Silly game.” Sammy grinned, then seemed to notice Chris and me. “Don’ cry. It’s okay.” She patted Chris’ arm. He lay his large hand over hers and offered a small smile.
“Yeah, it’s gonna be okay. The roads are clear. Maybe we can find a car and ease these sore feet, hmm?” Billy took Sam from Shaneeka, balancing her on his own hip with practiced ease.
“M’ feet okay.” She swung her little sneakers.
“You aren’t walking, kiddo. That isn’t very fair.” I made a funny face for her and got a giggle. “And Tasha isn’t getting ridden, that’s final.” I tickled her side.
Funny how a child’s giggle could lighten a heart a bit.
We found a open military jeep. No soldier’s bodies around, which was a bit odd. No keys was no problem. Not for me. I knew cars inside and out. Impressed the others, anyway.
No car seat meant Sam sat in my lap in back, with Tasha squeezed in the seat between me and Billy. We kept the speed low. If there were any kind of accident… we were in deep shit. No hospitals, no doctors in our group. So we kept it at thirty, which still took us further in one day than I’d managed to cover in one day.
We found a tacky hotel to stop at. Power was out here. We didn’t search out empty rooms, but pulled mattresses into the lobby. No one wanted to sleep alone. |
|
|
| Night Terrors |
[Jul. 11th, 1990|10:04 pm] |
| [ | Current Location |
| | West Virginia | ] |
| [ | mood |
| |  anxious | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Blue on Black | ] |
It was a bit overwhelming, after all these long days of solitude among the dead to suddenly be facing four people in perfect health, one of them a child.
And what a group they were. Chris looked to be in his mid thirties, slightly overweight, blonde with a mildly receding hairline. He had a sense of humor that I could appreciate, and he doted on little Sammie. He was from Canada. Shaneeka was, frankly, the kind of woman other women wanted to be. She was tall, and built, athletic, with the most perfect chocolate skin, almond shaped eyes, and hair that fell to the middle of her back in ringlets. She was late twenties, early thirties and from Rome, New York. She also had a handgun on her hip. Billy was in his mid twenties and a full blood Mohawk. He was from Arietta New York. He had long, silky black hair, and a complexion a few shades lighter than Shaneeka. He had a sense of humor similar to Chris’. However, he had a sawed off shotgun across his back that made me think of Ash from the “Evil Dead”. They had found Samantha crying pitifully in a locked apartment in Binghamton. They’d had to have passed close to Scranton, while I was working up the guts to move on at all.
Poor Sammie, if they hadn’t come along… maybe God was still paying attention.
They’d been hiking along the highways. Made descent time.
So I joined them. The first night, Shaneeka and I both woke at the same time. We were both breathing hard and perspiring. We looked at one another and knew we’d dreamt similar dreams.
Walking through the rows of corn, towards the singing, the sound of the guitar. But there was something in the corn. Something behind, dark, consuming. It would do worse than kill me. I could feel its hunger. For me it was rats, a roiling mass of them spilling towards me. I ran, the corn leaves slicing my arms and hands as I held them before me, protecting my face. The rats scented the blood.
“You got to hurry. He’s on your heels, child. He owns the rats. You have to hold together. You found each other, but he’s lookin for you same as yous lookin for me.”
I hate rats. Must have said it aloud. Shaneeka said it was snakes for her. Slithering with fangs and cold eyes. |
|
|
| From the Journal of Chris Jackson |
[Jul. 10th, 1990|10:33 pm] |
We saw the dog first. Sam squealed “Doggie!” so loudly there was no hope of avoiding them if they were dangerous.
The dog was big, one of the biggest I’ve seen, with a scraggy coat, and it was wearing a red saddlebag getup. The girl who walked with the dog… I was relieved to see she was a kid. At the end of the road she paused, looking at us.
I can imagine how we must have looked. Paunchy blonde guy, chocolate skinned goddess, and stone faced Indian crowded round a four year old girl who badly wanted to get to the ‘doggie’.
As they approached I dropped the opinion that she was a kid. At least not the twelve to fourteen I had guessed. Her red hair was plaited into French braids at either side, and she was a mass of freckles that might have been cute if it weren’t for the mixture of hope, joy and wariness in her pale blue eyes. No, she was seventeen or older. And the pigpoker she had strapped to her hip looked out of place.
She was tiny. Slender and maybe cleared five foot barely. Which made her seem a kid next to a three foot dog.
“Heading for cornfields?” She asked hopefully.
Shaneeka flashed a dazzling white smile. “To sing Amazing Grace with Mother Abigail. Sure are, honey.”
“Are you real?” Oh man, the kid, woman, whatever, was tearing up. I hated to see women cry.
“Yeah. Real enough. That’s Chris Jackson, Billy Twofeathers and this little angel is Samantah Wynett.” Shaneeka hefted Sam up onto her hip like a natural. “I’m Shaneeka Thomas. Gotta name sweetie?”
The girl half laughed and half sobbed. “Molly. I’m Molly Green. And this is Tasha.”
Looks like our ragtag band just grew by two.
Kid had been through as much as the rest of us. We swapped the horror tales, though she seemed to be holding something in. Something that scared her, or hurt her real deep. Interesting how she said she felt pulled to Morgantown. None of us were from here. But it was a place to try and get some supplies, including a stroller or sling for Sam.
Both Molly and Sammie are curled up with the big dog now. Funny how you miss the little things. Like dogs, and laughing kids. Maybe this won’t be so unbearable after all. |
|
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| This ain't no nature hike |
[Jul. 9th, 1990|07:53 pm] |
I found a pet store and broke in. Thank God the cages were empty. But the smell of rotting fish from the tanks in back was something I wasn't used to.
I got three can's of dog food and a doggie backpack for large breeds. More like saddlebags really.
Next in the same strip mall was a sporting goods store. It had already been looted once or twice. I got another backpackers tent and bedroll to replace the ones I left behind. I had a gut feeling we'd be walking soon.
The jeep got us to the interstate. From there on, we went by foot.
It doesn’t make much in the way of sense the way I’ve been avoiding major roads, but I’ve decided to hike along 79. I also feel a strange pull to Morgantown in West Virginia. I saw the road sign stating miles to. When I get these feelings it’s like an itch that can’t be scratched… only in my head.
So here I am, sitting on the hood of a Honda Civic taking a break to apply more sunscreen and have lunch with the car’s driver no where in sight. Maybe he had decided to walk. Tasha’s panting from the heat, and slopped down the water I poured her. She’s taking the hike very well and doesn’t seem phased by the contraption slung across her back.
She even went off to chase a butterfly with a careless abandon I wish I could emulate. But it made me laugh, and I felt almost lighthearted. Of course the moments idle was ruined by a sudden memory of weight pushing me down, groping hands and wet blood. Tasha had returned to my side and pressed against my leg, offering comfort. I don’t know how dogs do it. They just seem to know. Maybe it’s something like I seem to know. Knew we’d be walking. Now I know we have to go to Morgantown.
Oh well, break time’s over. Time to be on the road again.
Shit… now that song’s stuck in my head. I detest country music. Maybe I should stop somewhere and pick up a walkman and some CDs. |
|
|
| A Girl's Best Friend |
[Jul. 8th, 1990|07:05 pm] |
It was a dog. Or a horse disguised as a dog. She was digging through garbage. When I came out, with my dad’s gun, she froze and started to back away.
Irish Wolfhound. Talk about irony. Imagine the chances of ME coming across the first dog I’ve seen since a week into the Captain Tripps epidemic, and it’s Irish Wolfhound.
She looked a little on the skinny side, but not overly so. She was wary of me. I’m most likely the first human she’d seen in weeks. Amazing how much friendship an open can of over-salty ham can buy you. She was very friendly. I didn’t try to touch her while she ate the offered ham. But once she was done she nosed under my hand for a pet.
I sat there petting her and then hugged her. I was half afraid she’d disappear. Companionship of any sort is a miracle at this point.
Her hot pink collar had her tags. Her name is Tasha, and as soon as I said it her ears perked up and her tail thumped on the sidewalk. Her shots were up to date. I checked the address on the tags and decided to check it out in the morning. There was never any consideration of not taking her with me. My first thought on her acceptance of my petting and scratching (other than that she needed a bath) was that the motorcycle was going to have to be left behind. I’d have to use a car, maybe a good ATV if I could find one, or if I eventually found a bike with a sidecar. Otherwise we were hoofing it.
She slept with me in the hotel room, on the bed.
The next morning I found a jeep that would serve. I broke into the house it was in front of and searched for the keys. I eventually found them. Armed with a service station map, I eventually found the address on Tasha’s tags. I new I’d found the right place when she started whining from the passenger seat. The front door was open wide. The previous owner had been a man. He was in the bathroom. Shotgun under his chin. Flies and maggots were rampant.
I stumbled out and threw up. I’d seen so many dead bodies in the lovely state of decomposition that the end of June start of July heat brought on, with the bugs and crows but this suicide bothered me. Don’t know why. Maybe because there was a pail of water and a neatly sliced open economy sized bag of dog food in the kitchen. The open door was propped with a brick. He’d tried to make sure Tasha had a chance.
”I’ll take care of her. I promise,” I vowed from outside the bathroom door, as if he, or the flies, could hear me.
I collected the food and water dish with her name etched into it. Tasha lay in the living room, whining and with her head on a ratty old blanket. There was an equally tattered and chewed on rag doll there. They came with us as well. It was clear she knew her ‘daddy’ was dead. She was even shaking a bit. Poor girl. We’d both lost our families, but we had each other now. |
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| Lost and confused |
[Jul. 7th, 1990|07:16 pm] |
| [ | Current Location |
| | Metal, Pennsylvania | ] |
| [ | mood |
| | dirty | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Life Sucks, Then You Die by the Fools | ] |
Trying to get things down. Don’t want to ever look at this again, but may need to. Keep the memory straight.
When things became more rural, I acquired another motorcycle. A sweet Indian Warhorse. I made much better time than on foot, but things are still too slow for my likeing. Clear highways… I could make Kentucky in about fourteen hours. Even with the bike I haven’t made it out of Pennsylvania yet. Though the Mason-Dixon Line is close. As things were more rural, I stopped at a place that had camping supplies. Had to smash the front window to get in. But hotels along the back roads I’m taking are getting scarcer, and the idea of breaking into a home, where there were likely to be the remains of the last residents… not so appealing. Got myself a small two man tent for backpackers and a sleeping bag, as well as a Coleman lantern and a really powerful flashlight.
Night before last I had crossed into a wooded area and by the time dark fell all that were visible were the occasional cabin and country stores. I made camp for the night, in the dark. Stupid, I know. But I had pushed it hoping to find something other than the tent.
I’m stalling. Can’t do that.
It was the night of the sixth. I have been sleeping deep except when the nightmares come. The Walking Dude, the Crow Man, the faceless terror with feathers and teeth.
I woke with a start to a heavy weight on me and a cold edge of metal at my throat. Bad breath hit me, and a crazy laugh. I couldn’t see very well. The moon was only half full. But I could make out a male shape. He was tearing at my cloths. Saying a skinny little girl was better than no c-word at all. I panicked for a moment, I admit, and struggled without thinking, got a cut on my neck for the trouble. After further threats of cutting my throat and going ahead while the body was still warm I went still, training kicked in. His free hand was pawing at my chest and he was complaining I didn’t have much. Bastard was trying to rape me and was complaining. He was going to have to get his pants open or down.
When he did, I struck. Doo bam joomuk – two knuckled fist – upper punch right to the throat, where his adams apple should be. I hear him gag and choke as there was a burn across my clavicle. He had reared back as he choked and I brought my knees up to my chest and placed my feet at his chest, kicking him back in one move. He was off of me, and my hand had wrapped around Bob’s hilt. My left hand pulled away the scabbard and I struck.
I felt the wet splatter over me, through my ripped shirt. It was hotter than I thought it would be.
I never saw his face. I did feel for a pulse in the dark. Didn’t get any. Couldn’t hear breathing.
I left the tent and sleeping bag and threw up. I remember I was shaking. But I don’t remember how I ended up some point down the road with only the bike and my backpack. I didn’t want to see.
I had found a house by the light of the headlight and I went in. The lights still worked and some were on. I saw, but didn’t process the body on the couch, or the sickly sweet scent I was oddly getting used to.
What I did was found the shower and spent God knows how long scrubbing. It was only after a half hour or so I noticed the blood wouldn’t wash away, and my shoulder was numb. I was cut. Right along the clavicle, a neat slice.
I found the medicine cabinet and mixed half peroxide with water. It cut through the numb. Then triple antibiotic ointment and a gauze square held on by medical tape.
I curled into a ball and shook until I fell asleep on the floor of the bathroom. Naked, with the lights on.
I’m at least a hundred miles from that place. But my stomach is still churning. I stopped early tonight. I found a roadside inn. It’s seedy and most likely rented out by the hour, but beggars and all that. There’s a lock on the door. The tenant of Beakjool Boolgool or Indomitable spirit seems far away and I feel like I’ve let down sah boo nim Kennedy, my instructor. Not only did I panic, I went for Bob and didn’t seek a less violent end. The eighth commandment of Taekwondo is never take a life unjustly. I let my fear guide me. Maybe in putting up a good enough fight he would have went away. And come back to attack some other time. I don’t know anymore. He was a living person in this world of the dead.
Shit, Something’s outside. God let it be a raccoon. |
|
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| On the Road |
[Jul. 4th, 1990|10:18 pm] |
Well this is a disappointing start. I made it to Hazelton. Highest point in Pennsylvania. Yeah me. When the roads were clear I could have made it here in an hour. Took me all freaking day. Nebraska seems a lifetime away.
Okay, quick recap. On reflection maybe I should have started out earlier. I hate mornings. Since I stopped attending classes I’d taken to sleeping in a bit. Since Kelly died I have struggled to get out of bed at all, let alone at the crack of noon. Anyway, I got up and had a good brunch of bacon and eggs, while the power was still working. I have a feeling those simple pleasures will be gone too soon. Took the boombox off the motorcycle and packed clothing, a family photo album I’d spent last night putting together, an emergency tool kit, big flashlight dad’s .45 (even though it makes me nervous) and a pack of necessities and a big bottle of Advil. Figures I’d start my journey cramped up to my eyeballs and with a headache. I refused to put it off, though.
The side roads seemed fairly clear, and I idiotically got my hopes up. Until I hit Wilks-Barre. I spent five hours looking for a road out not totally blocked to even the motorbike. I finally ditched the bike, slipped on the backpack with my goods, patted Bob and set out on foot.
Who is Bob, you may ask. Well, Bob is my sword. Gorgeous steel swept hilt rapier with perfect balance. I spent a fortune on it. It was for dress in the SCA. When we competed we used rattan. But Bob was battle ready. Sir Roland of Asbury (actually Henry Weston of Dunmore) told me all good blades had a name. A noble name. I called mine Bob. He was disappointed. Asked me if I’d name my dagger Neal. Really. No need to be crass.
Neal is strapped on my left hip.
Anyway, I spent the rest of the day on foot, working up hill. I’m in fairly good shape. But I only made it as far as Hazelton. I found a hotel with a closed sign on the door. No really strong smells coming from it. Now I’m holed up in a room with a locked door. I don’t know why. I just felt I should lock it. Maybe it’ll keep the Crow Man away. |
|
|
| So this is Depression |
[Jul. 3rd, 1990|12:36 pm] |
| [ | Current Location |
| | Taylor, Pennsylvania | ] |
| [ | mood |
| | depressed | ] |
| [ | music |
| | We Disn't Start the Fire by Billy Joel | ] |
I haven’t left yet. I suppose I was looking for hope. I used Tim Norton’s motorcycle to move around town, with a boom box strapped to the front, playing Billy Joel at full volume. I occasionally set off fireworks at street corners. I canvassed Taylor, went on to Old Forge then through Moosic. Three towns, every damn street covered. All I found were bodies and one Mr. Kurt Brown. He was in the last stages. Delirious, but had managed to pull himself out of his house from the sound of the music.
I held him there, on the sidewalk. He kept calling me Sarah and begged for my forgiveness for not taking Buddy to the vet sooner. I gathered Sarah was his wife by the ring on his finger. Buddy had been their dog. He was an older man, grey haired. I couldn’t tell how old with the swelling and the ravages of the Superflu. I kept wiping down his face with cool cloths. I had seen my parents and Kelly through this. I knew he didn’t have long. I kept forgiving him for Buddy. Tried to feed him some ice chips, and told him I loved him.
He thought I was Sarah, but I hadn’t lied. I did love him. This dying stranger was the only living person I’d seen in days. I loved him because he was human and for a few hours, he was there. I also hated him for dying.
I buried him in his back yard. Next to Sarah, who’s apparently been buried with Buddy. The picture of the three of them on her grave showed a handsome elderly couple and a big black mutt. I had to bury him. I couldn’t leave him on the sidewalk, with some of the other corpses. When he died, I had been his only friend, and he mine.
I cried, although I didn’t think I had the tears left. Not for Kurt Brown, Sarah and Buddy. I believe in my heart that they are together now, without cares or fears. I cried for myself. I’m selfish that way and don’t care. I’m alone, and afraid and I spent the next hour raging at God. I called Him every foul name I could think of, dared him to strike me dead right there. I’m not sure I can forgive God for this.
But then, I have the feeling the Crow Man is just waiting for me to get so angry at this fucked up world and at God that I’ll go to Vagas for revenge. If he’s out there… and Mother Abigail are out there, then there has to be other people. Or I’m mad as a hatter. In which case maybe my mind will conjure some imaginary people. No. I know the feel of dreams of meaning. Had them for years. Mom and Gran called it part of “The Sight”. This is real.
Can’t do that, can’t go to Vagas and live in hate. Tomorrow. I’m leaving tomorrow. Fourth of July is as good a day as any.
I want my mother. I want her to hold me and make empty promises that everything will be okay. If I’m lucky, tonight maybe Mother Abigail will at least hold me and give me hope. |
|
|
| From the Journal of Molly Green |
[Jun. 30th, 1990|06:45 pm] |
Nothing left here. Have to face that. I sat for hours just looking at Kelly’s grave. Some grave. It was a mound of dirt in the garden along side mom and dad’s mound of dirt. I made grave markers out of metal from the garage, even used the dremmel to etch their names and birth and death dates on the metal crosses. Most likely they’ll rust away. Hell, wood would rot. Either way in a few years there will be nothing to show they had ever lived but bones in the ground.
I cried until I was sick. Stupid really. I can’t bring them back with tears. Part of me wanted to start digging a fourth grave and just lie down in it, stay with them, where I belong. Just lie in a hole and die. I actually started to dig that hole. Then mom’s voice in my head stopped me. This wouldn’t bring them back either. And even though I know we’d be together in heaven… I had to have lived for a purpose.
I wish I knew what it was.
I went house to house around my neighborhood, banging on doors, trying to ignore the smell of death that seemed to sink into everything. I can’t accept that I’m the only person alive on the planet. No. There are the dreams. They give me a direction, at least. Nabraska. I’m taking my sword with me when I go. Might not have seen anyone yet, but they may be out there. The best way to go, I suppose, is by highway. But the traffic is piled up, cars on cars from people thinking they could outrun the superflu by getting away from the Scranton area. And go where?
Backroads for a while. Might not have to look at so many dead. It’s July tomorrow. Bodies in cars.
Maybe I did die, and this is hell. |
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ats_molly_g's journal
calm