March the Twelfth, 18XX

Dear Mana,

This is Allen. It has been a week now since I have left you, and I deeply apologize for causing any agony as a result of my inattention. I am all right. At the present, I am more worried about your condition—are the first-floor windows sealed well-enough? Are all doors, except the one leading to the secret passageway in the basement, locked fast? Perhaps we should have found more food for you, but you told me to leave anyhow. So, leave I did, and now I am plagued by the idea that maybe leaving was not a good idea. Are you sleeping well? Do you have enough water? Are you safe? I guess I will not know until I return home, whenever that may be. I did take all the paper in the study, after all. I pray to God you receive these in good health. And I hope that these letters are legible in some way, because I know my written-English is not good.

Right now, I am waiting out this persistent storm that has gone on for what seems like hours in a stall where horses ought to be. There's hay in the bins, and water pales, but no horses themselves. All the gates are open—people must have stolen them in the chaos of what occurred a month ago. Laws no longer apply in what seems to be the extinction of humankind, I guess. At least the horses got away. The owners—or what is left of them—are still roaming in the farmhouse nearby. I caught a glimpse of them as I raided their attic for stored foods earlier. They were both in terrible shape, but not as bad as what appeared to be their son. If I be fifteen, then he looked no younger than ten. But then again, I could not make out any special features because of the rot.

It worries me that I am so used to seeing this now: the darkened discoloration of blueish-purple skin, the bile-filled, sagging eyes, and the jerking of their slow footsteps as they look for more prey. It is much worse out here than we thought, Mana. In my week of travel, of trying to find anyone else with sanity left in them, I have been unsuccessful. The more I walk, the more hellish scenery I encounter. Men, women, and children—no exceptions anywhere, all with bloodied clothes and the same aghast looks on their faces, foaming at the mouth.

It is frightening. I had numerous close encounters with these sick people. While they are slow, whenever they smell fresh flesh, it seems to me their agility increases almost tenfold. However, they cannot seem to climb, and they appear to have less energy when the sun is out. Whenever the sun sets, I try to find someplace to stay, or else I must keep vigilance throughout the entire night.

I do not really know where I am, to be honest. In my search for other survivors, I have lost my way numerous times, and find myself on long stretches of dirt roads leading to nowhere. I happened upon this farm by chance, and, even then, the owners are still...

I am starting to think we are the only ones left. Is it really the end of the world? Even if it is, I intend to keep walking forward, one step at a time, to figure out the truth about what happened. It is not easy, though—the few small towns I wandered through, chock-full of diseased people, have no news of anything. Papers stopped being delivered, and, even on the ones that are dated a month back, no one seems to have seen this coming. No one was prepared. I have seen completely empty houses, overturned carriages, and discarded belongings exposed to the elements. No one was prepared at all.

But every time I see one, even though they try to kill me, I cannot help but feel a need to help them somehow. Maybe there is a cure, somewhere, and maybe someone knows the answers to all these questions. Is it possible that somewhere far away, there is a human-resistance fighting, even now? If God truly does love humans, I can't see how He would just abandon us like this. There has to be a solution, and a reason.

My hands are cold, and my nose is running. I wish I could go inside, where those owners are, and sleep in their bed (even if it does seem a little dusty). But I do not want to confront them again; I barely slipped out the door last time. And I definitely do not want to bring them any harm. What if they are stuck in their own mind, begging for help? I cannot imagine what that is like. I do not want to become like that, Mana.

Sorry if my handwriting is getting worse. It is very cold outside—I can see my breath. At the very least, it has stopped snowing, meaning spring is around the corner. Do you remember last year, how it snowed in the middle of summer during your circus act? Everyone was shocked, and you juggled snowballs at the request of small children, without gloves. How did you do that? My hands feel so numb I can barely bend them anymore. It is a miracle this pen is staying in my hand.

Nothing but pickled food for days. I am tired of eating pickled food. I wish I could have some sort of meat. Not human meat, of course! Perhaps bringing that up is a bad idea. Perhaps I should go make a bed out of the hay and sleep before continuing. With any luck, the rain will let up.

Timcanpy, your carrier pigeon, has been eating very well, though. He is such a good bird—how does he know where I am all the time? No matter where I tell him to fly, he always comes back to me. You trained him really well. Where did you get him? He is my only companion right now. Maybe that is why I haven't gone insane yet.

I can barely see the paper anymore. I am going to stop now and sleep. The owners and their son are locked in the old farmhouse, and there are no other houses for many kilometers, so I think I can sleep well tonight. If it is sunny tomorrow, I will send this letter, and hope it gets to you. I will try to send you as many letters as I can to ensure you that I am okay, but I do not know how often than will be. Please forgive me.

I pray to God for your safety, and mine.

With much love,

Allen W.