our camp, and many of my young friends are already dead. The misery that awaits me cannot be much worse than the misery I leave behind. . .
“March 4 th , 2189. I have hiked for several days now, and I have not seen a soul. The apparent mutation of the Great Disease has cut a swath of destruction, both from the lives it has taken and the insanity it has incited—it now fells like a reaper the old and the young, and it has not yet become clear who exactly is susceptible to its deadly scythe. . .
“March 6 th , 2189. I’ve stumbled across a quarantine camp much unlike my own. The people were friendly, but wary of my presence. Upon entering camp, I was greeted by a group of men who call themselves ‘elders,’ though they look quite young. They escorted me throughout my visit, eyeing me carefully and murmuring to each other just out of earshot. I was fed and then promptly asked to move on. It was a strange mingling of hospitality and mistrust. I chose not to chance their suspicion and left upon their request. . .
“March 9 th , 2189. It took me over a week to get to the city to the west. After careful inspection, the city guards allowed me entrance into their gates. A small government is emerging here—the people hold regular meetings and have elected a city council. They hope to found some union of cities and villages, although that seems unlikely. It appears as if this is only place to have risen above the pandemonium of the pestilence. But still, I sense some danger lurking in these streets. I will stay here as long as they allow or until the Light of the Disease comes full upon me. The flickers are already increasing in frequency. . .”
The journal ended soon after. The papers crackled as I closed the Book, and the cover nearly came undone when I slid it back into place. The Books appeared to be arranged chronologically, so I followed the morbid timeline further into the dreadful past. In the next era of the Disease I found a quite intact and well-preserved journal, bound in stiff cardboard and neatly marked with the words “Life Journal.” The ink was faded somewhat, but still legible, although the script was a kind of cursive I was not used to. It was dated 2101 C.E.—no other date was given.
“When our camp ran dry of food and supplies, my son and I left to find a better life. Since the ban on travel was lifted and the gates of the camps were opened, many have done the same. In the early days the government airlifted food and water, but our leaders have become quite useless, and now we fend for ourselves. . .” He described an odd journey through crumbling communities and tumultuous towns. “The people have lost all sense of themselves—they loot and rob and care nothing for the lives of others. The whole country has fallen into lawlessness since the government collapsed and the camps opened up. My son and I had to hide in the woods for two days to avoid a group of bandits scavenging the highway. . .” He too was looking for the city. “We wandered for weeks trying to make it to the city—there is a rumor of a vaccine there. . .”
The script became illegible and abruptly changed to another style, another point of view. “My father has passed—the disease has taken him. It was like they say—a light appeared before his eyes, and within a few days he died. I took him to the burial pits on the outskirts of the city. It was gut-wrenching to see his limp and lifeless body flung into that pile with dozens of the dead, most of them without friend or family to lament their loss. He had no funeral, no farewell, no tears of grief except the few that stained my cheeks. Is this the fate that awaits me?” The journal ended there—no date, signature, or valediction.
I sat with the journal on my lap for a moment, collecting my thoughts and wondering what life was like in those harrowing centuries after the Disease first appeared. It seemed much worse than my own, and I felt a great appreciation for what I
“March 4 th , 2189. I have hiked for several days now, and I have not seen a soul. The apparent mutation of the Great Disease has cut a swath of destruction, both from the lives it has taken and the insanity it has incited—it now fells like a reaper the old and the young, and it has not yet become clear who exactly is susceptible to its deadly scythe. . .
“March 6 th , 2189. I’ve stumbled across a quarantine camp much unlike my own. The people were friendly, but wary of my presence. Upon entering camp, I was greeted by a group of men who call themselves ‘elders,’ though they look quite young. They escorted me throughout my visit, eyeing me carefully and murmuring to each other just out of earshot. I was fed and then promptly asked to move on. It was a strange mingling of hospitality and mistrust. I chose not to chance their suspicion and left upon their request. . .
“March 9 th , 2189. It took me over a week to get to the city to the west. After careful inspection, the city guards allowed me entrance into their gates. A small government is emerging here—the people hold regular meetings and have elected a city council. They hope to found some union of cities and villages, although that seems unlikely. It appears as if this is only place to have risen above the pandemonium of the pestilence. But still, I sense some danger lurking in these streets. I will stay here as long as they allow or until the Light of the Disease comes full upon me. The flickers are already increasing in frequency. . .”
The journal ended soon after. The papers crackled as I closed the Book, and the cover nearly came undone when I slid it back into place. The Books appeared to be arranged chronologically, so I followed the morbid timeline further into the dreadful past. In the next era of the Disease I found a quite intact and well-preserved journal, bound in stiff cardboard and neatly marked with the words “Life Journal.” The ink was faded somewhat, but still legible, although the script was a kind of cursive I was not used to. It was dated 2101 C.E.—no other date was given.
“When our camp ran dry of food and supplies, my son and I left to find a better life. Since the ban on travel was lifted and the gates of the camps were opened, many have done the same. In the early days the government airlifted food and water, but our leaders have become quite useless, and now we fend for ourselves. . .” He described an odd journey through crumbling communities and tumultuous towns. “The people have lost all sense of themselves—they loot and rob and care nothing for the lives of others. The whole country has fallen into lawlessness since the government collapsed and the camps opened up. My son and I had to hide in the woods for two days to avoid a group of bandits scavenging the highway. . .” He too was looking for the city. “We wandered for weeks trying to make it to the city—there is a rumor of a vaccine there. . .”
The script became illegible and abruptly changed to another style, another point of view. “My father has passed—the disease has taken him. It was like they say—a light appeared before his eyes, and within a few days he died. I took him to the burial pits on the outskirts of the city. It was gut-wrenching to see his limp and lifeless body flung into that pile with dozens of the dead, most of them without friend or family to lament their loss. He had no funeral, no farewell, no tears of grief except the few that stained my cheeks. Is this the fate that awaits me?” The journal ended there—no date, signature, or valediction.
I sat with the journal on my lap for a moment, collecting my thoughts and wondering what life was like in those harrowing centuries after the Disease first appeared. It seemed much worse than my own, and I felt a great appreciation for what I
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