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.
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