Was our town a peaceful place?

If someone had asked me that question almost a year ago, my response would have immediately been a "yes." Now, I'm not so sure.

I stare at the small notebook in my dirty hands. I had found it while my friends and I were stalking around the campus, searching for more supplies. It's been nine months so far since the outbreak swept through Colorado. Nine months and now I'm certain no one is going to help us. Tyler's words, scrawled in pen over a newspaper clipping, were enough to prove that.

Found this in town. WTF? No one's coming!

Are you kidding me?

In the end, Jessica had suggested that I keep the journal, scrawl my name on it, and scribble down any thoughts that happened to cross my mind. My friends said I always had a knack for creativity, after all.

Other than that, not much happened. All we found besides the memorabilia were a few cans of food, and a few clickers that saw us as food. Nothing that couldn't be handled though; George and Cheryl had made sure of that.

So here I am, wondering what to write. I don't know if I could bring myself to write about what happened here at the university. Everyone knows what happened, so why bother? I can't even come close to writing about my own family. I'd barely be able to put a few words down before my imagination would run wild with fantasies about how they died.

Then I remember the news clipping Tyler saw. I could possibly write about that. I mean, surely the military will improve their efforts. This isn't a "hard-to-reach" place as they put it. They'll come to help us get somewhere safe, right? Right?

Someone please tell me I'm not wrong…

With these thoughts in my head, I take a deep breath, put down the date, and begin to write.

01/18

Nine damn months of waiting, and still, nothing. No word from anyone. Found some additional cans of food in the dining hall, but they won't last. Had an incident at the eastern hall barricade but everything's still secure.

Letting out a long, exasperated sigh, I set the notebook down on my cluttered desk. "Cluttered" is a simple term these days to describe my desk, let alone my entire room. Sure, I'm normally not that good at keeping my room clean, but seriously. The place was an absolute junk pile. I guess that's what happens when you tear the room apart, literally, while looking for the basic things needed to stay alive.

I decide enough is enough for one night, and crawl into bed. Truthfully, I'm dreading the trip to town coming up soon. Tyler, being the creative guy he is, suggested we all take turns going into town for supplies. We all hated and feared the town. Not only was it crawling with infected and not-so-friendly survivors, but we each had families here. Families that were either dead, infected, or fleeing to the quarantine zones around the country.

That, and it was way too easy to get lost. My buddy Jake was one of the first people to volunteer for a supply run. It wasn't until Cheryl found his mangled corpse days later that we knew we wouldn't be hearing from him again.

I slam shut and lock the doors, and burrow underneath the covers, hoping I wouldn't die while I was out there. That's my last thought before the world around me fades to black, and I fall asleep.

Surprisingly, a few days later, the trip to town didn't go as bad as I thought. I'd managed to find some more food, and I was even able to get my hands on a revolver. Turns out it had a scope on it too, so basically, I've got myself a handgun version of a sniper rifle to keep me company.

The only thing we weren't betting on was the infected trying to follow us home.

Tyler and I had been chatting about recent events before we were interrupted by our friend, George. "Hey, guys," he calls out. "You might want to…you know…" He gestures towards the lookout.

"What's going on?" I ask, the curiosity in my voice overcoming the fear.

"See for yourself, Cameron," he replies.

We follow him out to the balcony. It's dark out, so I could hardly see why Jessica had her rifle ready to shoot.

Then I spy the bumbling figures out in the area below. Infected.

"Hey Cam, I think some of those things have a crush on you," Tyler jokes. Out of the few survivors here, Tyler's the one who has the most sense of humor. He also has a spark of optimism, like me.

"Give me a break. Why don't you just go and make out with Cheryl already?" I sneer, vowing vengeance for my friend's cruel joke. "I've seen the way you look at her…"

We both just laugh at that, only stopping when Jessica gives us a serious look.

"If you two could calm down, I could actually kill some of these animals," she yells in a hushed tone.

Both of us are still snickering a little. I only stop after Tyler starts staring, a look of horror written all over his face.

"What?" I ask.

"Uh…" Tyler just stares, as if he's suddenly unable to form words. "I think Heather's back…" he whispers, pointing to the street.

I stare at the street below, where the infected continue to shamble. There's just something about one of them that seems familiar.

By the time I'm able to think clearly to remember what it was, I'm already racing back to my room.

I slam the door shut, and choose to sit there for a while, trying to resist the urge to just forget about my journal and go throw up in the toilet.

After what seems like forever, I finally find the strength to stand and stumble towards my desk. I can feel my hand shaking as I write:

01/31

I caught a glimpse of a group of those things running around. I saw one that looked like Heather. Maybe it was Heather.

I finish off the entry with a colorful word, and slam the notebook shut. Heather was a kind person to be around; if someone ever needed help getting supplies or fixing the generator, or maybe even just getting a bottle of soda open, she'd be the first to step in and help out. When I was suffering from pneumonia and unable to go into town a couple months back, it was Heather who volunteered to gather supplies from town in my place. And she never asked that someone do something for her in return.

Heather was the type of person who just wanted to make sure everyone survived. She's saved everyone's skin from infected numerous times, yet she probably couldn't save herself.

Such a pity…

It's been fifteen days since I last wrote. Nothing new. Just some complaining about how supplies were running low. I wouldn't have been surprised if Tyler and George had decided to take the risk and head back into town.

It wasn't much of a surprise when Jessica assigned Cheryl and me to go with George back to town. The trip was an interesting one to say the least. We had a run in with some clickers and a couple of bandits. George ended up cutting his leg open on a piece of shrapnel. We had to postpone the supply run in order to patch up his wound. But none of that matters to me.

What does matter is that Cheryl was nowhere to be found.

This wasn't just an average case of Cheryl taking her sweet old time. There was no "Hey, sorry I'm late," no apology, no note that suggested where she was and what she was up to.

It's as if she didn't even try to go. To me and George, that was unlike Cheryl. She normally lived for these trips to town, so it doesn't add up as to why she didn't come along.

And then we noticed the smell lingering in the air.

"Aw, man, it reeks in here," George complains. "What in the world is Jessica burning in the kitchen?"

"I don't like it," I reply. "Stay close, buddy. We don't want you opening that cut again."

"I've endured worse, Cam, believe me." He pulls out a gas mask, handing it to me. "You can never be too certain…"

He's got a point. Whenever an infected dies, they start to release these spores into the air. One sniff of them, and you're as good as infected.

I pull the mask over my face, making sure the air cylinder was still intact, before reloading my revolver.

I round the corner, ready to kill any infected that twitches…

What the hell…

What am I looking at?

I pull the gas mask off, an annoyed look on my face. There are no infected or spores, thank God. It's just Cheryl, sitting there without a care in the world. Every so often she takes a drag on the lit cigarette she's holding. That would explain the smell. "Cheryl?" I call out.

She jumps in her chair, clearly not expecting to be disturbed. "Oh, Cameron, George…what are you guys up to?" She quickly puts out the cigarette in a vain attempt to keep us from noticing.

"Uh, we could ask you the same," George replies, clearly as upset as I am. Now I know why Cheryl didn't bother to show up for that failed supply run. She was too busy smoking like no one would care.

"About that…" Cheryl explains, trying to make up another useless excuse. "Look, guys, could you please not tell Jessica? I really need this."

"Yeah, well, we really needed you," I snap. "What are you doing? This isn't like you!"

Cheryl finally stands up. I notice there are more burnt out cigarettes littering the ground. "I'm trying to forget," she replies, the pain and guilt in her voice evident. "I'm trying to forget everything that's happened in the past nine months. I'm trying to piece my life back together. Apparently, you're not willing to do the same."

"You do realize you're hurting yourself by doing this, Cheryl," George pipes in.

"Honestly, George, I don't really care. Besides, I think my choosing to smoke outside should be the least of your worries."

With that, she shuffles past us, wandering off to God-knows-where, probably to light another cigarette.

George and I just stare in disbelief.

I didn't sleep well that night. I was too busy thinking about Cheryl, and I was also extremely busy making up for her mistake. I had just finished wandering around the university grounds, finding more ammo for my gun, some more food, and even some medical supplies. None of it will last that long, though. Thanks to the failed supply run, George's leg wound got infected, and Tyler ended up complaining about his empty stomach. I found it horrifying that one choice from Cheryl could impact us all.

And finally, I muster up enough courage to do something about it.

It doesn't take me long to find Cheryl's stash of cigarettes. It takes an even shorter amount of time for me to get a garbage sack and cram as many cartons as I could into it.

I run outside, and I'm just about to toss the poison into the dumpster when I hear a gun click.

At first I thought it was a bandit, maybe wanting my gun or the medicine I had on me.

It was Cheryl. She has her pistol pointed at my heart, tears flowing down her face.

"Go on," I snap. "Do it. All that's going to do is affect one more person in this forsaken wasteland."

"Drop it," she hisses. "Now!"

I toss the bag to the side, where Cheryl immediately rushes to save as many cartons of cigarettes as she can get her hands on, her gun still aimed at my chest.

"You ungrateful jerk…" she whispers. "Why?"

"It just so happens that this bad habit of yours is the most of our worries. Do you even realize the gravity of this situation?" I start.

"Don't you dare try anything like this again, Cameron!"

"Well, what the hell was I supposed to do, Cheryl? Apologize for not letting you destroy yourself? Just look you in the eye and say, 'I'm sorry?'"

"It beats stealing from me and destroying the only ties to my old life that I have left," she spits.

"Wake up, Cheryl," I deadpan. "We all need to stay focused here. You can't just go skip out on a supply run just because you feel like it! This is our life now."

More tears are streaming down the girl's face. "Well, forgive me for choosing to think about my dead family, or reminiscing about my high school prom, or wondering what my sister is up to, especially now that she's a Firefly!" She points to the few cartons she managed to collect. "This is all I have left of my past, and if I let it go, I've got nothing to help me cope."

The last sentence comes out in a hushed whisper. She immediately composes herself, putting on as serious a face as she can manage. "I don't care if I have to risk a few things to hold on to what's left! If you're not willing to understand that…then I'm just wasting my time!"

With that, she storms off, the few cartons she's carrying slipping out of her hands. I call out her name, but the only response I get back is Cheryl's middle finger.

I storm off to my room that night, and lock the door, letting my anger and anxiety do the writing in my journal for me:

02/25

Cheryl was smoking out yesterday. Said she needed it. She got pissed when I threw out her stash. She doesn't get it. We need to keep a clear head here.

Someone's going to have to go into town and get more supplies.

I stop writing, and prepare to close my journal, but this time, something stops me. Cheryl's decision caused the supply run yesterday to go haywire. Jessica may not trust her again after what I told her. George is still recovering from the injury on his leg. Tyler broke down with a fever last night, as a result of malnutrition. And Jessica…Jessica's doing everything she can to keep us alive. But she needs help.

And by the looks of it, I'm the only one physically able to help her.

I feel the weight of my friends' lives on my shoulders, as I write one more line in my notebook:

It's probably going to be me.

I feel a tear roll down my cheek. Going back into town was inevitable. It was a fairly simple task. But back then, I had friends to watch my back. With Jessica staying to watch over the others, and Cheryl unwilling to help, I'm going out there alone. Jake went out there alone, back when he volunteered for the task, and I still have nightmares about how that ended for him.

With these thoughts in my head, I grab my backpack and my scoped revolver. I move to take the journal too, but I hold back at the last second. There's a good chance I might not come back this time. We all understood the risks of going into town. Maybe the others might have something to hold onto if I die out there.

I leave the journal open in my desk drawer, and slide the drawer shut.

As I look around my room one more time, I try to give myself hope. Maybe Tyler and George might recover quickly. Maybe Cheryl might understand the error of her ways. Maybe the military or the Fireflies or somebody might come and help us escape this nightmare. Yeah, right.

I sigh and begin the long walk to town, with only my instincts to watch my back.

Maybe I might make it back, write in my journal about this trip into town, go to bed, and forget about everything that's happened.

I can hear the distinct clicking sounds of infected from a couple blocks away…

Dear God, I hope I make it back.

I have to make it back…

I have to…

The dormitory room looked abandoned. Devoid of life. Just like the rest of the university.

Quickly and quietly so as not to alert any potential infected nearby, the man searched the room top and bottom, hoping to find anything worth using. Nothing too special. A bottle of pills, some spare bullets, a couple of broken blades. Upon opening the desk drawer, however, he found something of interest.

It was an old, faded journal. The book was opened, so that the aging man could clearly see the few recent entries written in its dirty pages. The name 'Cameron' was crudely scrawled on the front cover.

Then it hit him. Whoever this 'Cameron' was, he was here long before the Fireflies were. But it didn't explain where the Fireflies went. The most recent line written brought a look of curiosity to his withered face.

Someone's going to have to go into town and get more supplies. It's probably going to be me.

No wonder the notebook held no info about the Fireflies. This survivor probably didn't live long enough to meet them.

Thoughts of what might have happened to the boy plagued the man's mind as he stuffed the journal into his backpack, determined to find a way out of the rotting dormitory. For a moment, he considered the possibility that Cameron made it out alive. Hopefully, the boy wouldn't mind if the man borrowed his journal for keepsakes.

"Wonder how long you held out," Joel muttered.

He slung the backpack over his shoulders, before moving on. He and Ellie still had the rest of the university to search. The Fireflies would be here. They were both certain of it.

And, maybe, just maybe, Joel and Ellie might come across a certain kid wanting his notebook back.