Dearest Diary; Entries (Pt. I)

Twelve pages laid one on top of the other, folded in half, then stapled down the center to a thin cardboard-cover. The entire notebook was hand-made from repurposed scraps of paper trash. Aside from seven blank pages at the end of the book, small tight letters filled each page from gutter to paper edge. A diary of the terrors he had survived? Or were these written before the cataclysm? Only one way to discover which—but am I violating him by reading his private thoughts? Am I stealing from him if I re-record his words? But why write if not to have read? Just think your thoughts. He is dead anyhow. So...?

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December 12th 
Something odd is happening in New Orleans. It is on all the major networks, but as usual, there is never anything actually substantive said. Reports of people disappearing; of people attacking people unprovoked; of some viral outbreak or another; of rioting in the streets; of evacuation; of quarantine, but it is never clearly stated exactly what is the cause of all this drama. What are they hiding down there? Was another confederate memorial or something dismantled, resulting in more hate crimes? Was another black man killed? But why not say it direct then? And quarantine? What is so secretive that even the networks aren't reporting openly? If only. The news media has always been misleading, casting a story in a scripted way to elicit certain responses—think this about this, think that about that. You see, thinking is dangerous, so the media has sacrificed itself for the public's sake; like Jesus on the cross. What a crock! 

What I want to know, though, is why haven't there been any smart-phone videos or leaks online? Has the city cut all internet connections? Something is definitely happening there. ARGH! Just writing this is irritating me.  

December 17th 
A plane crashed directly into the Las Vegas Strip. No survivors. The fool in office used this disaster to bolster his travel ban by labeling it a terrorist attack, even before a formal investigation has started. Sadly, enough people will believe him, and just like the Bush Era, violence and hate will flourish, and our civil liberties will be given up willy-nilly for the sake of 'security.'  

December 17th (1:21 AM) 
Both the pilot and the copilot must have died for the plane to have crashed in such a public area. But how did they die? I shudder to think of how many people died.  

December 21st  
The news from New Orleans had ceased since the plane crash on Tuesday. No shocking developments, no nothing, like, it was all a mistake. But today... as if straight from a movie. I was watching 'The Young and the Restless' when the TV blipped out and a young, disheveled woman, standing in what appeared to be a meeting room, came into view. She stared directly into the camera, eyes wide with fear and desperation, and with a look of pleading, not for salvation. A man's voice told her to go, that they didn't have much time before they lost their connection. She began to speak, her voice wavering, threating to break at any moment. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she spoke. She spoke about some sort of disease that had rapidly spread through the city, killing thousands, if not everyone, and that all the roads leading to and from the city had been barricaded. Her voice dropped when she announced that the evacuation told by the major networks was a lie. There was no evacuation, and there never would be. She said anyone who approached the barricade was shot without question. The tears just kept flowing, and her sobs grew stronger and eventually choked up her words.  

The man's voice again came: "Shelly... Shelly ya've gadda tell 'em. Shelly, ya've gadda." She gripped her microphone harder for support, and swallowed, then: "People of America. As hard as it...as it may be for you to believe what I'm about to tell you, there is no...sniff... denying the truth; New Orleans has been inexplicably overrun by... there is no other word for it, but... but... by the living dead. This hapless reporter, Shelly Yesteron, and her, faithful and..."

Her composure broke here and she struggled to continue "my fai... my... and my... and my... sniff... dearest friend and cameraman, Jonston Winestein, are broadcasting to you live from WDSU to—"

There came a sudden bang on the frosted window behind her, and a silhouette of someone came into view. She let out a yelp and tried to continue, but her composure was shaken and she continued to stumble over  her words and sobs.

"Fr–from W... WDS... sniff... U to... t-t-t..." 

The man's voice again: "C'ma Shelly."  

 Another someone collided with the window behind them and started pounding their fist against it. Then another someone, then another. Strange moans and groans filled the airwaves. The woman—no, she has a name—Shelly, tried to override them.

"We need t-to... to tell our viewers..." Her sobs increased, as did the pounding behind her. "Don... don't come." 

Her sobs took over her and she simply stood there clutching her shoulders, her head hung out of sight, just sobbing sobs full of finality, full of despair, full of fear, in front of millions of rapt viewers. She just... just sobbed. Suddenly, there was a pop of a gun off screen, and she jerked in surprise, letting out a pained yelp. Her sobs grew more hysterical and desperate, and the banging on the window increased. Shakily, she reached for something off screen—a gun.  Heaving heavily, her entire body shook violently as she raised it to her temple... "Please God..." she muttered, "f-f-forgive me..." 

I... I don't want to write about... I'm not going to write her death here. I don't want to kill her again, not with my words. She was... she must have been an intern. She was so young.  

The camera kept filming, then the glass broke, and shattered and billions around the country saw corpses stumble into the room, then the feed was lost and my soap came back on. Almost immediately, my phone began to ring. I didn't want to pick it up, I didn't want what I saw just now to be validated by another. I felt tense. I noticed that I was wringing my hands tightly—never done that before. I stood and went to leave. I don't know where to, I just had to be somewhere else. I opened the door and stepped out to find my neighbor across the street standing at his front step, staring blankly up at the sky. I looked around me. More people were coming out and glancing around them to see who else wished to wake from the nightmare we had fallen into. And though all of us were frightened and worried and in need of guidance, none of us reached out, we simply turned around and went back in to our private caves of loss and confusion and loneliness. 

And now? I don't think I'll be able to sleep. There are just too many questions that weigh down my mind. So much dread beats in my chest. The world is oblivious to my turmoil. On it goes through the cosmos, and not long from now the sun will rise as it always does.

What is going to happen to us all? 

"Truly riveting," I thought, and turned the next page.