The Lost Journal Part 21

The street and the intersection were packed with abandoned cars. We couldn't see any infected.

This meant I would have to go now.

d.a.m.n.

I told Jack to cover me as best he could from the balcony. "Stay below the railing. Stay hidden. If you need to shoot, rest the barrel on top of the railing. This will help with your aim. Now, if you do have to shoot, it's not that important if you actually hit anything. But I'll know if you fire this gun, that there's infected in the area and that I need to get to cover. OK?"

Jack nodded. He didn't say anything. He was too nervous.

"And don't shoot on full automatic," I added. "You'll just waste the ammo. Single shot. Nice and controlled."

He nodded again.

"Just be careful," Maria said.

I snuck out one of the emergency exits on the ground floor. I sprinted across the road, ducking between all the abandoned cars. I made it to the supermarket in good time.

The sign read: IGA - Independent Grocers a.s.sociation.

The automatic gla.s.s doors of the entrance had been smashed in. My boots crunched on broken gla.s.s as I made my way into the grocery store. It was immediately apparent that the place had been looted. The shelves were completely bare. I noticed some droplets of blood on the floor.

I made my way to the rear, hoping to find some cans of food that had been left behind or missed in the panic. Maybe a few bottles of water. Something.

The deeper I made my way into the store, the more blood I saw.

The droplets became long arching splatters of red. It looked like a deranged serial killer had decided to get creative, using the floor as his canvas. Blood as his paint.

Remember how I told you I was seeing dead people?

It happened again. In the grocery store.

Sitting against the shelves that lined that back wall was an employee of the store.

His uniform was stained with blood. His name tag read: Imran, Store Manager.

His skin was a mess of wounds. Bite wounds. And gunshot wounds. His jaw was open. There was a giant hole in the back of his head. He was sitting in a pool of his own blood.

"Sorry about the mess," he said.

I took a step back. I am always surprised at how loud and clear the voice is.

"The place was looted," he continued. "People went mad. What was I to do? This one guy, he did not want food. He wanted money. He robbed the store. Why? Why would he do that? Did he not know? Did he not realize what was happening? Money is no good. Not anymore. Probably won't be for awhile. We are going back to the dark ages. Money means nothing. He was a fool."

"Are you mad?" I asked.

"Mad?"

"Angry."

"No. Not anymore. I was. At first. As the last of my blood oozed out on to the supermarket floor. The same floor that I'd spent countless nights cleaning and buffing and sweeping. I cleaned this floor so many times. So many hours spent. So many hours wasted. Now it is stained with my blood. It will never be clean. Never again. And nothing will change that. Do you see? That is why I am not angry. Because nothing can change this. Nothing. That man, he was a fool. He will always be a fool. Nothing will change that."

The man reached up to the back of his head and felt his wound. "Before I died," he continued. "I witnessed the chaos. I saw h.e.l.l on earth. I had to take charge. People were being eaten alive outside. They were being shot by soldiers and police officers. They were being executed. It was my duty."

"What duty? What are you talking about?"

"They, the soldiers, they were knocking on the door. Screaming. Demanding to be let in. Ordering us to evacuate. I took my family. We hid in the storeroom. I did what any loving father would do. We were surrounded. The military had lost control. It was chaos. Tell me you understand. Tell me. Say it."

"I understand."

"My son was bitten. He was sick. I saw what they did with the sick people. I knew. What would you do? Would you give him over? I do not regret what I did. No. Not even slightly. It was my divine right. The only thing I regret is not telling him enough. He was my only son. And I did not tell him enough that I loved him. I did not tell my family enough. And now it is too late. As a child I was told the more we suffer in this life the more we are rewarded in the next life. Well, I have suffered."

Suddenly Gordon appeared, kneeling over the man. He checked his pulse and s.h.i.+ned a torch into his eyes. "What do you think happened to that boy in the village in the Hindu Kush?" he asked me. "He was sick. He was wild. What do you think?"

"Gordon? What are you doing here?"

"I'm looking for answers. The medivac showed up quick after the skirmish, don't you think?"

"No. We were calling them; we were calling for aerial support. Of course they came."

"They sent in the big guns for a couple of grunts and a one tiny non-existent village? I don't think so. They turned up before they could've known. They showed up fast. Before word spread. You know what that tells me?"

"What?"

"It tells me they knew."

"Knew what?"

"They knew the boy was sick."

"He was poisoned."

"He was sick in the kind of way that would warrant special attention. Remember the noise he made? Remember the noise he made when he was banging against the door? Remember that? Do you? He was banging his head on the door. It was constant. Relentless. He wasn't stopping. He had two broken arms. A compound fracture. He didn't stop."

At that moment I heard a thump. There was a knocking on the door. The sign on the door read, 'storeroom'.

Gordon looked over at the door and then back at me. "You better tell them."

"Tell them what?"

"Tell them you'll be right there. Tell Imran, tell him you'll set things right."

I looked at the door. The handle turned slowly, back and forth. It was locked. I gripped my rifle. I gripped it tight.

"You might wanna do this quietly," Gordon whispered as he put his index finger up to his cold, blue lips. "Shh. You don't know how many more of them are in the area."

He pointed to a fire axe on the wall. "Use in case of emergency. I guess this situation could be cla.s.sed as an emergency, don't you think?"

I grabbed the axe. I told Imran, "I'll set things right."

He didn't respond.

I stood in front of the door and I told his family, "I'll be right there."

I opened the door. And I swung the axe.

We go hungry for another night.

I told Jack and Maria that I found nothing. I told them the shelves were completely bare. The place had been looted. I didn't tell them about the store manager and his family. I'd left the fire axe lodged in the skull of the manager's wife.

"We need to make a move," I said as I desperately tried to erase that memory from my mind. "The center point shopping complex," I continued. "Does it have any super markets? Grocery stores? Anything."

"I don't know," Jack answered. "You would think so. I mean, it would have to have some sort of food store."

"Maria?"

"I don't know. We always did our grocery shopping online. Home delivered. I only ever came in here to shop for clothes."

It was getting hard to think straight. Hunger and dehydration were setting in. The brain stops functioning. Planning and problem solving become near impossible.

I knew there would be dangers. But we had no choice.

"We move," I said. "First thing in the morning. We make our way to the Center Point Tower. We move together. We move in silence."

Feb 10th - They're back It was a few minutes after dawn. I had made my way out to the balcony again. I hadn't been able to sleep.

The city was quiet. The sky was this weird pinkish, orange color. Smoke and haze lingered over the buildings.

I looked to the east, down one of the main roads of inner Sydney, and realized that I might have few more sleepless nights ahead of me. The reason? At that moment, a ma.s.sive horde of infected were stumbling back into the city. It was like a river of people, or a parade or a pilgrimage or something. The street was packed.

"The virus is designed to find life," I whispered to myself.

The warning of that crazy doctor was being demonstrated right before my very eyes. These infected people had no doubt chased the retreating soldiers, chased them all the way to the coast. Those soldiers were most probably dead. And now the infected were coming back, searching for more hosts.

I looked through the crowd. I don't know why I was looking. I should've ducked behind the railing of the balcony. I should've crawled back inside immediately but I couldn't help myself. I rested my rifle on the edge of the sandstone railing and looked through the scope.

Again, I don't know why I did this. I guess I just wanted to watch them. To see what they were like when they weren't chasing anyone, or eating anyone. I could see all kinds of people.

Police officers.

Business men and women.

School kids.

And soldiers.

Lots of soldiers.

These were ordinary people who had been infected and turned into sick, twisted monsters.

I focused on one soldier. A marine just like me. His rifle was still slung around his neck. His cammies had been torn to shreds. His head, his skull had been cracked wide open. I could see his brain. His jaw was broken. It was snapped at the mandible so that it was hanging down near his neck. His entire face was covered in blood.

And then he looked at me.

His head just snapped in my direction.

The range was more than half a mile. There was no way he could see me. But he continued to stare.

I ducked behind the balcony. And to my surprise, crouching next to me was Drake. He sat down, resting his back against the balcony railing. He then loosened his belt, removed it from his pants, and tied if off around his bicep.

He took out a syringe. He looked at me. "Morphine. Eases the pain."

I blinked. Shook my head. This wasn't real.

"Pain is real," he said. "Well, sort of. You know I used to be terrified of needles. Not anymore."

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"What am I doing? The real question is; what are you doing?"

"Reconnaissance."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

He nodded towards the horde of infected. "They're back. You're screwed."

"Drake, please. Don't."

"You were looking at that marine down there. Come on. Put him out of his misery. He deserves that much. Or that little."

Drake stood up and pointed the syringe down towards the approaching horde. He pointed it at the marine. "Come on. Do it. Do it for me. Remember when I asked you for help? I begged you. Begged. And you p.u.s.s.ied out. Do you remember that?"

"We could've saved you," I said.

"No. No. No. There was no saving me. I had been bitten. You know what happens to people once they get bitten. Well, except for Maria. Are you sure you're fit to protect her?"

"I hope so."

Drake stretched his arms out above his head and took a deep breath. "I love the smell of the dead in the morning."

"Huh?"

"You know, like from that move. Apocalypse Now."

"Drake, I'm sorry."

"Yeah, we're all sorry."