It takes Hell to differentiate between the Angels and the Devils (or the Devils and the Angels).
[Jeffrey Scarlett's journal, July 2012]
Jeffrey's rocking chair creaked ever so slightly. Leaning forward, weight on his left elbow, Jeffrey flew his ink pen across the pages in cursive. He wrote whatever came to his mind, and that was usually the struggles for a man to stay true to his ideals.
At 37, he had found pursuing perfect morality most addicting. Distant from the anxiety of his youth, he enjoyed every one of these hot, humid nights in his quiet Southern town just writing and thinking.
But he knew that most people did not enjoy this practice. They lived the way that came most natural, the way others did. Or just the way their parents did.
He also knew it took longer to actually perform these ideals than it did to learn them. Changing personality takes not months, but years. Even decades.
And so he dreamt of worlds where morality values would have instantaneous, dramatic effects. Wars. Earthquakes. Asteroid collisons. Drug-ridden dystopian cities. Contagions. Nuclear warfare. They all fascinated him.
And, one Fall, such a world came. When sporadic cases of cannibalism arose on the East and West coasts, and one right in his home suburb outside of Chicago, he was genuinely disturbed. It had taken the last two decades of active moral change for him to actually genuinely care about the people attacked, rather than just out of fascination for the story and something to talk about with others. [As a hospital crisis manager, he was familiar with the underworld of drugs and violence. Jeffrey figured the outbreak related to the effects of bath salts that had occurred several years before, causing people to perform as if they were on some combination of LSD and cocaine. These had become popular in the more impoverished, rural South.]
For the first time since the Holidays, Jeff got in touch with his family. His parents in Barrington had long lost interest in him, or he had them; he was never sure, this depended on his mood. But he called them in July when the incident had happened in their own town. No, they did not know anyone involved.
Then, as it worsened, in mid-August, he suggested to his eldest sister in Philadelphia that she take a trip somewhere quieter:
"Donovan's! This is Jenna speaking!"
"Jenna. It's Jeff, I—"
"Oh, hi Jeff! Thank you for calling. How are you?"
"Jenna. Who is watching Nicholas while you are at work?"
"Oh. Well, we have a nanny taking care of all that. We've been so busy you know, with Steven and the tumultuous markets and my practice. Just wild! Steven's confident that everything will go back to normal as usual in just a few weeks. But how are you?"
"Jenna. We might all be in danger. Our family. Everybody. What is your plan? Where will you go if it gets worse?"
"Nicky just got out of the bath. Call you back later!-"
A week later, every major city had a reported incident. So Jeff called his little brother, Sam.
"Hello."
"Sam. It's good to hear you're okay. Things are getting bad. What is your plan?"
"Oh. Did you read that article in The Atlantic this week? Did you hear that they think all this is some sort of neurological virus? My friend down in the Orange County is a doctor and he has a theory that it's somehow related to Avian Flu."
"Sam. What are you going to do? California is getting bad. It's safer here. Would you please consider coming to Georgia?"
"Listen. Jeff. I've got a life here. And a girlfriend."
"Sammy. I love you. You've been an exciting little brother to watch grow. Promise me you will come to Georgia if it gets worse? Or go to the Rockies. Up at Alta Ski Resort maybe."
"Haha I haven't been there for years… Yes, if it gets worse. I will. Buh-bye, bro.-"