April the Eighth, 18XX

Dear Mana,

This is Allen.

Though the warmth of the sun is beating down in my back, and though the first sprouts of flowers are starting to appear in the long stretches of empty fields, and though I am overlooking the sea on top of some jagged cliffs, free from danger, I am chilled to the bone as Death writes down my name as potentially another victim, but not from the plague—from woe. I have seen the change, Mana—the descent into madness, the fall, however you wish to call it. She could have been saved. I do not know how I could have helped her, but she could have been, like the rest.

Was it my fault? If I had never wandered through their town, stomach craving something to eat, I may have starved, but would they still be alive? I breathe in this fresh, ocean air, with the gentle sounds of the waves crashing against the shore, but I feel anything but calm. Rather, I can still see it in my mind, the sounds, the smell, the way her body jerked forward, and...

I am getting ahead of myself. Forgive me—even though it happened a week ago, I find it difficult to organize my thoughts to articulate properly. Hence, I have not written to you, and I have been on the run from them for several days. However, where I am now, there are no buildings, nor towns, for many kilometers. At the present, I am physically safe, though the anguish persists to bring heartache on my person.

Her name was Mou—no, Moa. Moa.

After finally leaving that house I talked about in my previous letter, I walked for what felt like forever, only to find myself in the woods. Instead of turning back, I continued on. Forests have very few dangers, unlike the city, but I am not accustomed to them. Several times, I felt like I was walking in circles, because everything appeared the same. I think I was lost there for many days, eating what was left of the food I took from the house. Time became lost, and I forgot what day or month it was. Eventually, after staggering to and fro like a drunkard, I reached the end of the forest and onto a hill, overlooking a small town.

And people were alive. Alive! What a miracle it was, to think that the plague had yet to reach somewhere, though my thoughts were wrong. The plague did reach there, but no one noticed. Not even I noticed. It was so well-hidden, nothing seemed amiss.

Yet.

Anyhow, on the brink of starvation, I dragged myself into the small, though affluent, town and proceed to faint on the outskirts. My body felt as if my old schoolmaster dropped multiple barrels of his overpriced wine onto my back, and I could no longer handle it. Fortunately, the kind people, unaware of the plight taking place (how? I believe it was because this town was rather self-sufficient, and did not receive any imports from neighboring places, but even I do not know), took me to their police station.

I met Moa there. At first, speaking and communicating to another functional human being felt difficult, since Timcanpy is the only company I have had for a little over a month, but I somehow managed to tell her my name. They fed me and treated me well, those police officers—well, except for the rotund fellow with his thin eyebrows, always glaring at me, but I cannot remember his name now. He interrogated me as I ate, demanding answers to questions I barely understood at first in my somewhat impaired state.

Of course, I had nothing to hide, and proceeded to tell them everything: how everything was normal, and then the first case came to our town, and how everything rapidly tumbled in despair. How I set out on this journey to find the truth of what had happened. What I saw along the way. Everything. Anything I could think of, I told them, though they believed I was insane. "We heard nothing about this," the grouchy police chief said. "There's no way something as bizarre as that would have ever happened!"

None of them believed me. If only I had been more convincing! Perhaps we would have taken more necessary precautions.

I was ordered to be placed under watch by the only female police officer, Moa. She seemed the most interested in my story, though, like the others, she did not believe me. I stayed with her for several nights, recovering from acute exhaustion, while she asked me questions about myself—how old I was, where I grew up, about you, about what I told them earlier. She had this big, fat cat who kept trying to eat Timcanpy, the poor bird.

While she thought I was a lunatic, she still persisted in doing research. "It sounds like you are talking about something from Haitian folklore," she said, flipping through an old book I never saw before. "A creature called a 'zom bee,' but to animate the dead, there's got to be someone practicing black magic, or witchcraft. But no sane person would believe in their actual existence. Another possibility are ghouls, but that doesn't make sense, either."

As you know, I do not read often, so I do not know what some of those terms meant. Ghouls, I have heard of, but not zom bees.

I learned her story, as well. Her parents were murdered, and her best friend, an active member in the church, was against Moa becoming a police officer. Her friend eventually died in a tragic accident, and her brother, Marc (at least I think they were siblings), had been ill ever since, wheelchair-bound. Moa took great care of him, and I even spoke to him several times, though shortly. He barely had strength to eat.

It should have tipped me off then.

I do not really remember what events transpired before that evening; perhaps dinner, maybe more discussion amongst ourselves, I do not know. She was laughing at something I said. Perhaps the last time she smiled.

Marc dropped his utensils unexpectedly, and his face grew pale. Before we knew it, he stood from his wheelchair, his neck bending awkwardly, before turning towards me and lunging. He frothed at the mouth, and all of his veins appeared as if they would pop. I fell out of my chair and he nearly bit me, if it were not for Moa's intervention. She yelled at him, asked him what was wrong, for him to speak to her, and I tried, I tried, I wanted to tell her to get away, but—

Instead, he bit her. On the left shoulder. His teeth tore her flesh like paper.

My apologies. This is difficult to write, and my hand keeps shaking. Please forgive me.

Nothing happened, at first—she got away from his grip, and he charged again, inhumanly fast, prompting her officer-instincts to kick in, it seemed, since she got out her gun and fired. My ears rang, so I could not really hear her, but she sounded like she was crying.

And then, she dropped her gun, as if transfixed. Black stars dotted across her skin, Mana. I never saw anything like it—how rapidly her skin turned dark! Her eyes rolled back, but she continued to move. She turned towards me after I called for her, and her teeth—her teeth!—grew long, with sharp points like daggers. Marc, behind her, started to get up as well, appearing unaffected by his wounds. His blood bled as black as his skin.

What more could I do? I picked up her gun and shot her. I shot her as she grabbed for me, right in the head, in between the eyes. A lucky shot, I suppose, but bits of her coated my clothes. The gun would not fire after that, but she stopped moving.

Not Marc, however—he already left, apparently frightened by the sound of the gunshot. Shortly thereafter, I started to hear screams while I tried to get Moa's lifeless body off of me, sweat clinging to my forehead.

Within minutes, the whole town succumbed to the plague.

I could not save them.

Mana, oh, Lord, Mana, what am I to do? It took hold of them in seconds, even though the disease apparently festered within Marc for weeks, if not months! Nothing makes sense anymore, and now, the whole town is dead. Moa, the police chief—everyone. I fled. I ran, like a coward. If I stayed, I would have died, and I know this. Yet, this persistent ache in my heart makes me feel ill.

I cannot handle this. I cannot handle simply observing anymore! There must be something I can do, anything. Right? But, for now, I am useless. I am just another victim, waiting to be claimed. How can I expect myself to make it to London? I am so far away from it, Mana. It will take at least a month, if not longer, on-foot. I am so tired. Where is home? I want to go back there, though if I retraced my steps, I would simply get more lost.

Why, God?

I apologize for the wet spots on the paper; no matter what I do, they will not go away.

Right now, I do not have anything more to say that will not bring more pain to your heart, Mana. Please, remain safe. Please, keep me in your thoughts. I am afraid, but I am still walking, like you told me to. I will learn the truth, no matter how hurtful.

Please feed Timcanpy some of that special bird-feed. I think he deserves it, after everything that has happened.

With much love,

Allen W.