Seven Days Grace

There was no warning.

Well, that wasn't strictly true; everyone who was anybody knew.

The important, the elite. Those who were 'supposed' to survive.

All the big men; the president in his large, well protected offices, to the generals of the air force, army and navy, and the aides that sat at his right hand.

They knew, they had to have known.

They were the ones that did this to the world.

The only comfort that I have now is the hope that they died screaming in agony at the tops of their voices, begging and sobbing for their lives while the jaws of destiny descended towards their throats.

I bet that, whoever you are, are wondering how anyone could be so jaded, so filled with…hate…for his fellow man. How after everything that has happened, in a time where every living breathing soul is now precious, could I wish such grief.

Well, let me tell you dear reader, I wasn't always this…cynical.

Unfortunately people, like the times we find ourselves in, change. I am aware that the world has moved on, maybe for the worst, but it has definitely moved on.

If you have found these pages then, I can only assume that you, like myself, are a survivor.

There is however another alternative; that there is actually no-one reading this my last words. That the world is in fact dead and gone, or worse; dead and rotting, and that I am talking to myself.

Oh well, as they say….

Shit happens.

From where I sit I can see the skyline of the once majestic city just the other side of my window. The sun is shining and there isn't a cloud in the sky. The tops of the huge elms and oak trees are swaying gently in the breeze that accompanies many a summer day.

A picture-perfect day in the huge metropolis.

All of that not worth a damn when you actually look down.

I don't know haw many of them are down there now, in the allies and abandoned buildings, in all the places where man used to rule.

For all I know the entire city is infected, in which case there are millions of 'them'.

In the last few days I have only come across one other living, breathing soul, but more about that later on. There are other things that I need to say.

Before I go on maybe I should introduce myself…give you some idea of what I am like….what I was like before the world went to shit, before all this started.

My name was, still is, Andrew Edwards, formally of London England, currently residing in the rotten apple in the good old USA. I came to New York for a teaching seminar. I taught crypto-zoology at Oxford. Looking now at my vocation and the situation I find myself in, I find the study of previously unidentified species…amusing.

And not a little ironic.

I am under no illusion that I will not see my homeland again. I have resigned myself to the fact. That is not what hurts me. The fact that I will not see my wife and son again burns me to my very core. I hope, if hope is a strong enough word, that they died quickly, that they didn't suffer. I will continue to love them with all my heart until my last breath. Rather that than the alternative.

Anything but that. I don't think that I could bear to think of them walking around like that.

But again I am getting off the subject that I am here to explain.

Excuse me a moment…

Back.

Sorry about that. I had to make sure that the door was still secure. I must have checked it a dozen times already but there is always a chance that one of them could force the lock and in these dark days a locked, secure barrier between them and you is as important as a loaded weapon.

I am okay for provisions; I have enough food and water to last me a week, maybe more if managed properly. I have spare lights for the flashlight ( I try not to think about being without light…again….and my mind will not accept the situation ). That is the good news.

I also found a revolver, but it only has one shell left.

That is the bad.

I think that I could put the barrel under my chin and pull the trigger if the choice ever came to it.

I am secure where I am for the moment, but I know that there is no way that I can leave. If they decide that they want me as a meal, if they swarm the apartment en masse, then I am as they say, royally screwed.

When I first arrived I thought that if push came to shove ( you'll have to pardon the expression ) then I could jump from one of the many windows facing the street. I dismissed the notion pretty damn fast though when I realized I was five floors up. If by some miracle I survived the drop to the concrete then there would be a definite possibility that something would be broken, or worse. Being paralyzed in the middle of a feeding frenzy would not be high on my list of how to leave this world.

So basically this is why I am here writing this journal; there is nothing else to do and it seems like a good idea at the time. I looked down into the street about an hour ago but the sight was so depressing and frightening that I haven't bothered since.

Luckily the apartment that I find myself in was empty when I arrived and, judging by the looks of the place, no-one has been here for a long time.

I have just taken stock of my situation; locked door, loaded ( with one round ) weapon and food when I happened across the pen and thick block of writing paper on the living-room table.

So, dear reader, this is where we find ourselves. Just the two of us and lots of paper just waiting to be filled. As to how I came to be here with a bag full of food and a gun with only one bullet in it, well, that will take a little longer in the telling. But if you are willing to hear me out, and I have enough time, then it will get told.

So pull up a chair and check that the door is secure at your back and I will begin.

I, like you I suppose, remember a different time, a different place. A different world where everything was still normal.

Well, as normal as any day could be in New York in the middle of July…