Dead Woman's Journal Page 4

  I’m on the other side of the street and the back of my house looks out over the woods that made this neighborhood so desirable. I hear those hair-raising screams in the distance a little better than those who live down the roads that branch away from this one. I feel like the Awakened are coming for us eventually.

  Also, I still haven’t decided about the nanites. What happened today makes me think I can be of use, but I’m still afraid. Before we lost the internet and cable TV, everyone was very clear about a few things. One of those things was that a person with nanites that dies—or some kinds of nanites anyway—can become like the Awakened. Death is no longer guaranteed to be permanent. What I don’t know is if mine will do that.

  I have twelve days to decide.

  Day 13

  I’m writing this for myself, but also because I want to be useful should the worst happen. I want to be sure that whoever comes to my house will be safer. Now that I’ve written that, I had to stop for a second and evaluate whether or not that’s true, or if I’m justifying in some way the writing of this journal. Am I being self-indulgent? Am I giving someone a promise of helpfulness to entice them to keep reading my words?

  It’s possible. Humans are sort of wired that way, aren’t we? I don’t think that’s it, though. I feel it sincerely. I’ve started the journal to help myself, but I genuinely want it to help someone else. I should probably start actually being helpful.

  So why not just tell all this to a neighbor? That would be a good question to ask. After all, wouldn’t it be logical that one of them will get my house? They might bury me like good neighbors and then reap the rewards of that kindness. If I’ve got a two-month timer—more or less—on my life, then why wouldn’t they be here to do that? Two months isn’t that long to survive.

  They might. I don’t think so though. I have a loud and booming timer that’s clicking off the days of my life, but it’s one I can understand. It’s concrete and has an end date that I can’t escape, but I don’t think anyone else is feeling their ticker. And I do think everyone has a ticker, except they don’t realize it.

  They can’t hear the ticking in their ears, so I hear it for them. I know that sounds all gloomy and glass half-empty, but it’s not unrealistic either. Part of that is that there aren’t enough of us to protect each other.

  There are twenty-nine houses in this neighborhood. Right now, there are only seven occupied. One of those houses is a hotbed of really sketchy people, while the other six are perfectly nice. Most are a hell of a lot older than I am.

  There are a couple of reasons for the low number of people here. One, the day it all started was a regular work day, which means that many people were away from their homes. That’s especially true for the younger, working age people. And even though it’s summer, younger kids still go to daycare while parents work. A few residents came roaring back down the road before the curfew went into effect, but most didn’t, and those that did return haven’t all stayed.

  One house is empty and for sale, and one is empty because the people that own it are having it remodeled. It’s also summer, so some people were on vacation. That includes my best neighbor-friend, Grant. I sure do wish he were here. That’s another topic, so I’ll leave that for later. What’s important is that a lot of the houses were empty at that particular hour of the morning when everything went to hell in a handbasket tied with a bright red “welcome to hell” bow.

  On top of that, when the first calls came out for shelters that would keep people safe from the Awakened, a lot of families chose to go. It was all over the news and scrolling constantly across the blue banners on TV screens. And once the first few Awakened came through our neighborhood, with their bodies all bloody and screaming with hunger, no one felt safe. It was like an exodus after that.

  The neighborhood cleared out over the course of a day or two. That was day four or five, I think. Wow…I just realized that was only a week ago. It’s amazing. It feels like ages have passed. I guess it’s true that time is relative.

  Don’t get me wrong. I don’t question anyone going to the shelters, but there’s no way I would trust anything run by the federal government. Not that they’re bad or have bad intent. It’s just that the feds aren’t known for organizing big things quickly and not making a mess of it.

  Plus, I doubt it would be wise for someone like me who relies on nanites to stay alive. What would they do with those of us swimming in nanites? Wouldn’t we be a danger to others in the camps? Younger families didn’t have that problem so much, so they went eagerly. That took out most of the remaining households here and left mostly older people loaded with nanites behind. It’s no coincidence that it was mostly nanite carrying people who chose not to go to the shelters. I’m sure I’m not the only one that felt very confident the camps might not welcome those of us with machines in our blood. It’s possible they might just have shot us or something.

  We didn’t really have a lot of kids in this neighborhood, but we couldn’t be sure there weren’t some at home for summer break while their parents worked. We knocked on all the doors, but found none. I suppose that’s a blessing, because I have zero idea how we’d manage if there were tweens without parents we needed to parcel out.

  So, we’ve done a head count and we have seven houses left occupied. Fred and Linda, Marcy, Doris, Gerald and Susan, Paul and Martin, and me. That’s six.

  The seventh is the sketchy house. They’re not kids, but rather two adult children that never left home, and they are incredibly sketchy young men. The mom is nice, but I think very stressed out because of her sons. People are generally tentative to talk about it, but the question remains that none of us knows why they live in this neighborhood. By that, I mean one filled with neighbors who notice all bad behavior. I think it’s probably on purpose. I think she moved here because we would notice what her sons were up to while she was gone. It sounds bad, I know, but this is my journal, so I can tell the truth, right?

  Their mom is a care-giver, which are generally not well-paid jobs, despite the high demand for their skills. She works in one of the long-term FiRF care homes. That kind of nursing should be better compensated, but it isn’t. The argument has been that the FiRFs are the easiest patients ever. They never wake up, never ask for anything, and are in good health as a general rule. So, there’s that. I think they should be paid more for enduring the very high creep factor involved in dealing with FiRFs.

  Some neighbors remark on the number of cars that come by the house for no more than a minute or two at all hours of the day and night. That parade of cars comes mostly while the mother is gone for her long shifts at work. Anyone who has watched the news in the last twenty years knows what that kind of vehicle traffic means.

  Yes, I’m one of the less kind neighbors. I know the signs and I have zero doubt they’re dealing drugs, but I figure it’s just pot or something. Add in the fact that the only break-ins this neighborhood has ever experienced started only after they moved in. That says something. I’m not saying it’s them, but the hundreds of customers coming by probably saw these houses as an invitation. Even the neighborhood association’s police contact stated the house was on their radar.

  Go ahead and think I’m a snooty-balls. I’m not. I’m also not stupid. I like to look at things from a place of reality. I’m pragmatic versus snooty.

  So, how does this lead back to someone from the neighborhood getting my house and why I don’t think that’s likely? If I don’t take the nanites, then I suppose they might have time to scavenge my house. Then again, there are so many other empty houses there’s little reason to move into mine. Plus, they have their own houses. And plus plus, the sketchy guys might well decide all these older people with well-stocked homes and solar power are ripe for the picking. Lots of ifs to consider these days.

  If I do take the nanites, I’ll have more time and with time, I think the inevitable will happen. All the older people in this neighborhood have their fair share—or more than their fair share—of nanites.
No one talks about it now, but before this, and particularly when I was first post-surgery, every well-wisher from around here was more than happy to tell me that they’re chock full of nanites.

  It was meant to make me feel less icky about being kept in one piece by a regular infusion of tiny machines. I know this. But that means I also know at least some of what everyone else has swimming around in their bodies. AirPlus for the former smokers. Chol-Erase for everyone with even the smallest amount of cholesterol in their arteries. Nanites for joints plagued by arthritis, for high blood pressure, for weak arteries, and even for failing eyesight. They’ve got them for postmenopausal women now too. That kind helps prevent the ills that come from a lack of estrogen, but without the cancer risks.

  One of the many downsides of living in a neighborhood full of people with excellent insurance is that I’m now surrounded by active older people who wanted to live as long as possible and jumped at the new tech. This neighborhood is nanite central.

  We don’t know what kind of nanites cause the transition or the post-death awakening, but I have a feeling we’ll find out sooner rather than later. We have a smorgasbord of nanites types here. So, you see why I think it might be someone not from the neighborhood to find this journal? That’s not even counting all the Awakened that seem to make their way here. Those are definitely a threat that might take all of us out soon.

  Enough of that. Let’s move onto the helpful bits. Here’s your first one. Through the woods are many clearings. I’ve always thought the empty spaces were a bit of a waste. Clearings are nice and all, but no one goes there, and the trails run a little distance from most of them. Last year, I decided to do a little experiment and it worked so well that I’ve done it again this year.

  I had no idea the apocalypse would happen, but it’s a really good thing I scattered seeds this spring. You might call it illegal agriculture, or if you’re young and hip, possibly guerilla gardening. In reality, it was just me being so excited I could do things like run through the woods that I went a little nuts putting my stamp on the world. Still, it’s a good thing.

  I’ll draw a map on the next page, so go ahead and take a peek, then come back. Are you back? Okay, you saw the clearings marked, so I’ll explain. I planted watermelon seeds in one of them. I planted butternut squash in another, and in the last one, I planted zucchini and yellow squash.

  I can almost see you making faces, but before you groan that none of these things are delicious, hear me out. Read me out? I don’t know which is correct in this situation. Also, if you do think those things are delicious, consider yourself high-fived. I also think those are super-yummy!

  Oh, I just had a thought. I’ll include recipes! I have no idea if you can cook, but what if you can’t? Might as well just write them down and let you decide. Just go to the back pages for those. Helpful bit number two. I’m on a roll today.

  Back to the subject of my planting choices, here’s some interesting information for you. Did you know watermelons are basically nature’s sports drinks? They’re filled with drinkable and safe liquid, all of it fortified with electrolytes. You can even make pickles from the rinds and get more bang for your melon-y buck. I chose watermelons for the clearing nearest the trails. A person lost without water, or stranded or hurt, can survive for a full day on a single large watermelon to provide liquid.

  Isn’t that cool?

  Last year was my first full year with the new prosthetics, so I gathered a bunch of them to donate, but most rotted where they were. This year, they’ll be life-savers and the first of them will be ripe soon. If something happens to the water, you have watermelons.

  The butternut squash will keep over the winter. They also make wonderful pumpkin pies, and can be cooked so many ways it’s almost crazy. I planted those there because the vines take up so much room. The zukes and yellow squash are self-explanatory. Last year, I kept the local food pantry supplied until people refused to take anymore. Given the shocking lack of groceries at the moment, I’ve been collecting what I can and parceling them out to all the neighbors. I even left bags of them for the sketchy house people on their porch. They wouldn’t answer their door.

  It’s not safe in the woods, not even remotely, but food trumps almost anything. If you’re very careful, you can go and collect what’s there. The best approaches are outlined on the map. The trailhead is just off the road to our subdivision. You probably passed it on the way in. It’s marked by a blue sign and a few parking spaces at the wide spot in the road. It’s almost the only turn off, so you can’t miss it. It’s a straight shot from that parking area to each of the fields. You can avoid most of the woods that way. There are Awakened inside the forest, so always be on the lookout, but you’ll notice them first if you keep your eyes and ears open.

  I’ve dug out more seeds and it’s just about the right time to plant things for a winter harvest. We’re lucky to live where we do, because I’m sure there’s enough time to harvest quite a lot if we hurry. Well, assuming someone is here to harvest them, that is. I found seeds for collards, kale, chard…all kinds of stuff. I have a little garden in the backyard, but like many people who have even a few plants they call a garden, I go a little crazy buying seeds. I’m glad now.

  For all the seeds I’ve dug out, we have yards. Yes, I know everyone spent a lot of money keeping those squares of grass as green and perfect as possible, but grass isn’t going to feed people. Yards would be good places to turn into gardens. A few people besides me have backyard gardens, but like me, most of them are small things meant for a hobby instead of serious food harvesting.

  I’ll think about all the pros and cons later, then discuss it with the neighbors.

  There’s a box in the closet with the Christmas ornaments that contains all the seeds. I figure scavengers won’t be interested in Christmas ornaments, so that’s a good place for them. Try to save seeds from what’s already planted out there, but since I don’t know when you’ll find this, those seeds in the box will plant fields of food when the time comes. Except butternut squash or watermelon. I don’t have more seeds for those. Collect some from the field if you can.

  I sure hope you like squash. And pumpkin pie.

  Day 14

  I haven’t had such a good evening since this whole world-ending nightmare began. Being able to forget, if only for a little while, is a priceless thing. I wrote a bunch of recipes down. I’m really hoping you get a chance to make a pumpkin pie, whoever you are. Delicious!

  I also feel a lot less intimidated by the sheer number of pages in this book. I figure I can fill up a bunch with recipes or helpful tips that deserve their own entry. I’ve thought of a dozen entries just for tips.

  I also had a thought while I was enjoying copying out my favorite recipes. What if you’re bad people? What if I’m doing this and the only person who benefits, aside from me, is a bad guy? I hadn’t actually considered that before. I’m not naive and I’m thirty-four years old, so it’s not like I haven’t seen my share of horrifying news. I know there are loads and loads of bad people. For some reason, I imagined you as decent people.

  Yes, maybe you’re a person that has had to do bad things. Maybe you’re a person who had to act in ways that horrified you later, but never did it enter my mind that you’d be inherently bad. Given that I actually kicked in a woman’s face a couple of days ago, I realize that no matter how nice we are, we’ll have to do things we wish we didn’t. I did.

  But what if you’re an asshole? What if you’re some horrible, rapacious dickhead that’s just killed everyone. Maybe even killed me?

  If I could describe a resigned shrug, then I would, because that’s what I did. I can’t control who finds my house or this book, so I’m going to choose to ignore the possibility that you’re a complete douchebag. I’ll assume you’re someone who simply needs a break.

  Helpful tip for the day:

  The water table here is about three feet below the surface in some places. No kidding. The back of my house is held in place
by underground piers that reach down eighty feet because there’s so much water close to the surface. The well in my backyard is drilled shallow and it’s never dry. It’s meant to provide water for the garden, because a shallow water table means the water that comes out isn’t entirely safe to drink. You’ll notice in summer that the water comes out a bit warm. If you’re here, then you know the bay is very close, but so are two rivers that lead into it. Underground there are more rivers and streams.

  So, you have water, but you don’t have safe water. Boil it if you have to use the well, no matter how clean the water looks. Even the water you use for washing your body should be boiled first. It might be said that I’m paranoid about water, but in this case, I’m totally serious and not overstating the need for boiling.

  I’m guessing you might be curious right now. If you’ve seen my tale on TV, then this part is boring and you can skip it. If not, then here it is. It’s best to be blunt and get it over with. I don’t like thinking about it, so I’m going to be in a mood after this. It’s only fair that I tell you why and it will lend weight to my warning about the water.

  Here goes. I don’t have legs because of water. Here’s the short version.

  I was young and happy, a college graduate having one, final hurrah before settling down, paying my student loans, and starting my adult life. It was a hot summer and the beach was warmer than normal, the water almost like a bath. I didn’t know my foot had a cut on it. It was so minor that I never even felt it. Almost a scratch, really. I spent many hours in the water or walking the beach. That night I had a fever, and within hours, my leg was swollen.

  I’m not stupid and neither were the friends with me. The number of flesh-eating bacteria cases had been rising, but every single such announcement was always followed by a reminder at how very, very rare such a thing was. No one wants to hurt tourism, you see. Putting too much emphasis on the rising number of cases during each, increasingly hot summer, would surely put a damper on a tourist’s desire to swim at our beaches.