Trouble Comes Knocking

Even before the outbreak, my roommate Brian and I had kept to ourselves. I guess we were typical city dwellers, we knew our neighbors on sight, but we didn't know a thing about them; their names, where they were from, where they worked.

Even the family that lived right on the other side of our duplex, all we knew about them was that they had a son of about seven named Thomas. The only reason why we even knew the kid's name was because from time to time we would hear his parents calling him in to dinner.

When people started dying all around us, it made it easier not knowing who they really were. Still, in the end our detachment saved us little grief.

It had been a quiet past few days in which we passed the time with books and card games and what ever else we had to stave off the insanity of cabin fever. But then we started hearing voices.

I thought I had finally gone crazy, but Brian insisted he heard them too. Someone was next door, in the other half of the house.

We strained and pressed our ears to the wall in order to make out a word, maybe two, but a shuffling, scraping noise drowned out any valuable consonants.

What sounded like two sets of footsteps pounded up the stairs. A door slammed.

"Do you think it's looters?" I asked.

"It must be," said Brian, "they don't have conversations with each other."

"Or run upstairs."

We sat and listened as a series of thuds bumped their way through the adjacent apartment and a loud scraping, like dry scales rubbing together, mingled with a few muffled cries.

"My God it sounds like they're on the roof!" I hissed. On tiptoes and barely breathing, we followed the noises into the upstairs bedroom and froze as the scraping stopped right outside the window. My limbs felt as if they were filled with sand and for a moment I dared not move.

"They must be on the ledge out there," said Brian with barely a whisper.

When we had barricaded the house, we used most of the lumber for the outer doors and the downstairs windows, securing our greatest weaknesses. The window Brian and I both stared at now was only partially covered by a piece of particle board. If that pane of glass were to break, whoever was on the other side would surly be able to crawl through.

What do we do? What do we do? spun through my head, so loud and dizzying I could barely think. I could see the words flashing behind my eyes but my mouth, gaping, made no sound.

I could feel the tension vibrating off of Brian like the hot buzzing of power lines and I knew he was just as scared as I was. At least he had the presence of mind to grab the baseball bat he kept beside his bed and raise it, waiting.

A knock on the window, light and urgent, took us both off guard.

Stay Inside

At first we hunkered down and barricaded ourselves inside, like they told us to. The TV anchors, while they were still broadcasting, and the radio stations before they went dead all repeated the same message: Stay inside and avoid anyone exhibiting symptoms. So that's what we did.

We boarded the windows to protect against looting and attacks. We kept the lights off so no errant beams of light could escape and reveal our presence. From the outside our house looked just as dead and deserted as all the rest.

After a while your eyes adjust to the dark, but your brain never really does.

We didn't go outside.

At first it was a blessing to not be able to open the windows. Every breeze brought with it the scent of destruction, decay and despair. But the air inside our little safe haven grew ever more stale and unbearable with the restless stench of sweat and desperation.

It had been weeks since we had heard a word amid the radio static and I don't know which was worse, the sounds of riots, attacks and screaming in our very streets, or the eerie calm that soon settled over the neighborhood like a stifling blanket.

Holing up at home was supposed to be only temporary, but instead of emerging from our hiding place to a reclamation of order and control, we had no choice but to venture out into a world as alien as a distant planet.

Not only had we run out of food, but our sanctuary was no longer safe.

Jennifer's story

I found this journal in an abandonded backpack lying mid-isle in a convenience store. We had stopped in for whatever supplies could be found, as it seems the previous owner had done; the pack lay open with a few canned goods and bandages tossed inside.

I can't say whether the blood pooled around it also belonged to the pack's owner, or to another unfortunate soul. I do know however I would not have left those precious goods behind unless I had no choice, or no longer had use for them.

It's sad when the sight of spilled blood ceases to bother you, when you just wipe your hands on your jeans and keep going.

I filled this pack and my own with what remained of the already picked-over items still left on the shelves and got the hell out of there.

That was yesterday, almost six weeks after the shit hit the fan.

The Way Things Were

Things will never go back to the way they were. If I keep telling myself this, maybe one day I will believe it.

Even if this whole mess were cleaned up tomorrow, it's not as if we can just wake up from this nightmare. Those of us who manage to live through it will never be the same. More importantly, if that day ever comes and there is anyone left to pick up the pieces, those who didn't make it need to be remembered. Each one of us has a story that deserves to be told.

I am the third person to carry this journal and I hope that if I don't see tomorrow, someone will find it and continue to fill it as I have. Our story must be told.

My name is Jennifer Adams, I am 26 and I have seen the end of the world.