Dead Woman's Journal Page 7

  My house was one of the last ones built. The lot isn’t great. It’s one of the least desirable because of the lowlands and tendency to flood, but I loved it at first sight. It was a breezy day when I came to see the lot and the sound of the trees at the edge of the forest gave me a feeling of peace. I could smell the bay on the breeze too. Nothing better than a bit of salt in the air to make a person feel right at home.

  The old house down the street is the original estate house. You’ll know it because it’s old brick and not as large as most of the others. As funny as it sounds, that house was considered almost a mansion back in the day, yet it’s smaller than mine! It’s beautiful though, isn’t it?

  The last heirs didn’t want to live in that house, which I understand. It’s pokey and probably impossible to heat and cool properly, so it was sold with all the land. At that time, there were only two houses here. The farmhouse, and the smaller brick house behind it.

  All the rest of the houses came after that sale, at first slowly over a couple of decades, then in a big burst right before I bought my lot. Mine was the second to the last house built here. The only one newer than mine is the one with the little windowed room sticking up like a third story.

  This beautiful isolation isn’t complete, since there are suburbs galore a few miles away, and the older part of downtown is no more than a few miles down the road in the other direction, but it feels like it. The new FiRF care home and the two apartment complexes have made for more cars on the main highway, but nothing much comes our way. Traffic noise is zero and the jet noise from the Naval base is almost entirely absent. It’s a good place.

  And it’s also probably why it’s been so hard for people to get home. Given that the only road leading to this oasis is the old highway, the roadblock would have been hard to get past. Unlike the connected and twisty masses of roads elsewhere, they closed off the highway with relatively little trouble. Given what we hear in the woods, I can’t imagine how anyone could make it through there alive, so walking home isn’t likely. Fred did attempt a trip to the highway to see if there was any evidence of traffic or curfew enforcement, but he never made it. There were too many Awakened roaming the road, most of them with their butts hanging out of their hospital gowns.

  Still, despite the plethora of Awakened, it’s possible some residents will come back, so the topic of their houses is a touchy one. I think every single one of us can imagine how we might feel if we made it back only to find our homes scavenged.

  I’m of two minds, which is probably why I’m devoting way too much ink to the topic. I’m not sure how I’ll vote. I won’t know until I get there, I suppose. I’ll write more later.

  Day 18 - Evening

  Well, the vote is done, the deeds begun, and the sun is now dipping behind the trees. It’s been a long day. The meeting went pretty much how I thought it would. A few other topics came up during the meeting that actually touch on you…or someone like you…so perhaps it’s something you might find interesting to read.

  If you’re here in my house, then it’s possible that you’ve arrived to find an empty neighborhood. I hope not, but it’s possible. It’s equally possible that you’ve been assigned my house. That was one of our decisions today. We decided that if decent humans find us and need a place to stay, we’ll parcel out the empty houses to them. So, maybe you’ve been handed a key and a welcome to the neighborhood basket. Who knows?

  Either way, let me introduce your new neighbors.

  Fred and Linda are very nice people. (Dark green house next to mine, fabulous front door.) Yes, I know he’s gruff and growly, but he also has a laugh so big you can hear it in your very bones. You may have already noticed that he’s a bit…well…eager. That’s the only word I can use for it. He’s a prepper, but more up the spectrum than I am, almost approaching survivalist. He’s not one of those nutjobs you see on TV preparing for the communist hordes, but he’s eager. He’s the one that helped me figure out what to stock in my little closet. Like Grant, he thought I was a lightweight and needed much more than I have.

  Honestly, the way he keeps eyeing me with raised eyebrows tells me he’s just waiting for me to concede that he was right about how much I should buy. I’m hanging tough, no concessions from me so far.

  Linda, Fred’s wife, doesn’t share his passion, but she indulges it. Now, I’m sure she’s happy about his hobby. Before the world went kaput, she once told me that in a long marriage you have to pick your battles. She said his prepping was harmless, so she just let him have half the closets and didn’t think about it.

  They do have one kid, but he’s long grown and in the Navy. I think he’s stationed in Germany, so they don’t talk about him at all, at least not outside the privacy of their home. I don’t think Linda can handle thinking about him or what he might be going through in a foreign land all alone.

  Marcy, I’ve already talked about. She’s nice, but a little bit meek. She’s not at all ready for this new world and isn’t doing well. I’ve been spending time with her since her mother’s death—well, since I killed the monster that was her mother—but she’s not thinking entirely straight. What happened with the bad neighbors didn’t help. I offered to let her sleep here at night, but she says she wants to be home when her husband arrives. That worries me a little.

  Another great neighbor is Doris. She lives alone. I don’t know her exact age, but she’s in her 70s. She’s very nice, but she’s chock full of nanites, so I’m concerned for her. The stress isn’t good for her body. She’s old school, so she’s doing fine in terms of living and getting by, but her house is one of those without solar or a natural gas generator. The regular gas generator Fred moved over there is too loud to run because it draws the monsters.

  Her house is the one-story brick across the street and one house down, the one with a huge brick grill in the backyard. I didn’t know her husband since he passed away before I moved here, but that was his grill. She’s been using it like a champ. Even though she’s had offers from everyone, she’s choosing to stay in her home for the most part.

  She showers here, and she charges her devices and lights at Gerald’s house, but she’s staying home for the time being. I don’t know how she’s doing it with this heat, but she says she’s fine. It’s going to get scorching hot come August, so I think she’ll have to move at some point, even if it’s only into one of the empty houses with solar. She knows absolutely everything about gardening, so make friends with her and listen if she gives advice on planting.

  Gerald and Susan live next door to Doris, or rather, right behind her. It’s the first house down the side street, a white house with black shutters. You’ve probably seen their solar since their roof is covered in those fancy panels that look like shingles. Those two are part of the reason this neighborhood is called Tesla-ville by residents.

  They both work for the solar company that first pushed those new batteries. I’m not going to say we got a break, but yeah, I’m pretty sure we all got a break on the pricing. Our installation was dirt cheap too. All we had to do is let them do photo shoots of our neighborhood for promotional materials. It was a fair trade. The company even washed our streets before they took the pictures. They even took photos from a helicopter. For a few days, it looked like a movie set around here. The upshot is, a lot of us have solar.

  Gerald and Susan are in their fifties, no kids, but they have two dogs that everyone loves. They never, ever bark and would probably lick a burglar to death instead of biting them. Completely useless and adorable as all get out. If you have trouble with the solar, or need better training on how to maintain it, that’s who to go to for help.

  Paul and Martin are the last friendly occupied house. They live across from the sketchy people house, tan siding, green shutters, red door. They’re a couple, in case you’re wondering, and completely awesome. I’d say they’re in their early forties, but I’ve never asked their ages.

  Paul’s a lawyer and Martin is a writer. They got lucky because Paul was workin
g from home that day, which he does once or twice a week. I guess that’s one perk of being a law partner. Both are major outdoor activity lovers and hike all the time. If you have gear questions or need training, that’s who to go to for anything of that nature.

  They went out to eat a lot and their kitchen is the barest. In the time before all this, they were the ones who knew every restaurant in town and could give the best recommendations. They’re doing okay so far, eating what they have, but their situation is what urged us to consider scavenging some of the empty houses. Gerald and Susan are also worrying about dog food.

  That made us realize we hadn’t thought about pets. How could we be so stupid?

  Unfortunately, what we found were dead cats. I’m not the only one that feels absolutely awful about it. Dogs weren’t an issue, because the ones in our neighborhood left with their people when they went to the camps. The only one left behind was Buster, a chihuahua home for the day while his parents were at work. Paul and Martin heard him that first evening and got him from the neighbor’s yard when he came out the doggie door. He’s a barky little fellow, but nothing is going to get to their house without him raising a fuss, so that’s good.

  I felt icky about figuring out how to get into the homes of my neighbors at first. Once I saw the first cat, all that disappeared. I just wanted to find one live animal, one survivor. I didn’t. The only house I raised a fuss about was Grant’s. I don’t know why, but I have this feeling he could come back.

  No, I’m not psychic. It’s just that I know him well. I’d say he’s my best neighbor friend. I miss him. I’ll talk about him later in more detail, but here are the basics.

  He turned eighty recently and he’s a pistol. He lives in the smallest house in the neighborhood, one of the first ones sold when the property was originally parceled off. It’s the small brick one right behind the old main house. You might notice it seems a lot older, but not as old as the main house, and you’d be right. It was built sometime in the fifties for some family member of the last owners.

  Grant bought it during that first sale and has lived there for all the decades since. He’s been here since those were the only two houses on this whole property. He likes to hunt and fish, so that house was perfect for him. It might be more accurate to say that he used to like to hunt and still likes to fish. He’s in great shape, but he is eighty. The days of him dragging a deer out of the woods are in the past.

  He doesn’t talk about it, but he was married a long time ago and lost his wife young. No kids. It sounds sad, but he’s not. He’s totally full of life. For a long time, before I got to know him, I thought a man named Bob lived there too, but it turns out that’s his best friend of almost sixty years. They’re always at each other’s house or out together. Bob’s a widower. They met in boot camp, went to Vietnam together when that war happened years later, and are basically like brothers. Only they’re brothers from the smart-alecky side of hell. They’re always up to something and the things they say are scandalously funny.

  Grant came over to give me his key before they left for this trip and asked me to keep an eye on things while he went fishing for a few days. That was right before this happened, as in exactly three days before the world went to hades. He was only going to the fishing cabins on some military base north of here, maybe ninety miles away. I know, I know. If a person can’t get here from downtown, then how can an eighty-year-old man get home from so far away?

  My answer is; you don’t know Grant.

  I have this feeling he’ll come back, but I also know they could go to Bob’s as easily as here. Actually, Bob’s would be easier for them, since his house is north of here. I’ve never been there, but I know the general area of his house. I should be less dainty about scavenging Grant’s home. I can’t though. I just can’t. Not yet.

  They’ve agreed to let me clean out the fridge and keep a check on things, since I have a key. Grant’s old school. He approves of my pantry when most others wouldn’t. The care-workers that used to come and help me with household tasks chided me over it in the past, but Grant thought it was smart. He’s like-minded. That also means he’s got a lot to scavenge. His pantry looks like a messier version of mine, but with the addition of a back room added to it.

  I don’t want everyone to know what’s there until I feel sure he isn’t coming back. If the need becomes dire, I’ll have no problem with them scavenging. But it’s not dire yet and there are almost two dozen houses to take from. So, I’m keeping mum and checking expiration dates.

  Day 20

  It’s been so busy that I was simply too tired to write yesterday. I fell into bed like a stone and slept hard. In neighborhood news, Doris agreed to move in with Marcy. The weather has gotten seriously hot over the last couple of days, but I’m pretty sure that’s only a cover for why she’s really going. I think she finally moved in because Marcy can’t stand being alone at night. The circles deepening under Marcy’s eyes make it clear to us all that she isn’t sleeping. After what happened, I don’t blame her. I feel better knowing Doris is over there. We all do.

  Other than that, we’ve been swamped here. And not in a good way. The activity around the houses must have been what drew more Awakened. I’m just going to call them monsters from now on. They aren’t awakened in any way that matters.

  Also, I don’t think these were all Awakened in the way they were on that first day. I wrote about the cop still wearing most of his uniform, but most of the monsters that came before were just what we’d come to expect. Lots of hospital gowns or nightclothes, some naked except for adult diapers, and plenty of stomach tubes. You know the sort I mean.

  Like I wrote before, one of the new FiRF care homes lies along the old highway. It’s a huge one with hundreds of FiRFs in it. That’s where most of our visitors have come from, I’m sure.

  The ones that came yesterday weren’t all like that. Fred and I volunteered to drag off the bodies afterward and there’s no way we couldn’t talk about it. It was too obvious not to mention.

  Most of the monsters were wearing clothes. Regular clothes. Even shoes. People in comas don’t wear shoes. One was wearing the ragged remains of a military uniform chock full of bullet holes. Even before the TV news went away, we knew it was spreading and that death wasn’t final for those with certain kinds of nanites. As hard as it is to believe, there were clips on the news showing it happen. Sometimes…though not every time…a person with nanites that dies now will wake back up and be like the Awakened. The thing is, not all of those people had nanites before. So where are they getting them?

  About half of the monsters that came yesterday were young. Like, young enough not to have nanites. Maybe you understand what this means, but I still don’t. I’ve been thinking about it, and I have some ideas about how it might be spreading, but I don’t like any of those options. I’m thinking bites. Or maybe it’s worse than that. Maybe it’s become airborne, like some mechanical version of the flu, contaminating everyone. I don’t know, but I wish I knew how it was spreading almost as much as I wish I didn’t know it was spreading.

  Before Fred and I came back for showers at the end of our messy job, he asked me to sit down on the curb. I think he was at his overload point and didn’t want his wife to see him so shaken. Generally speaking, Fred is a rock. Not at that moment though. His hands were trembling hard enough for me to see it from a few feet away. He looked afraid. It’s the first time I’ve seen him like that. Even when Marcy was being attacked, he looked pissed off rather than frightened.

  It took him a long time to speak, so we sat there on the curb. I didn’t push him, but instead took the opportunity to check my legs. I worry I’ll damage them with all that kicking and jumping. I can’t just hook up the port to the internet and get a diagnostic from the labs anymore, so I check them pretty obsessively. They seemed okay. I bent them back and forth to check for squeaks or anything out of alignment.

  When Fred spoke, he didn’t address what was making him afraid. Instead, he asked,
“What does that feel like? I mean, the whole thing. What is it like?” The way he was staring at my legs conveyed what he meant.

  I told him the truth. I told him that they made me feel like a superhuman, unconquerable and whole, almost like a god, though a minor one unable to grant human wishes. Perhaps like some half-god offspring with a little something extra. I don’t usually tell the truth. Instead, I usually say something lame and weak like it makes me feel free. I’m tired of polite lies. Why not tell the truth? After all, it’s not like my words will wind up on the news, or on the desk of the NSA agent that keeps tabs on me.

  That didn’t mean I wasn’t a little concerned with how he might take that truth, so I watched for his reaction from the corner of my eye. All he did was tilt his head in thought, then smile and say, “I guess it would make me feel like that too. You can do things no human can do.”

  And that was that. What a relief!

  Maybe my answer freed him to speak, because he looked down our street and said, “We can’t win this, you know. This isn’t a game anyone can win. All of this is just delaying the end.” It was said just like that, very matter-of-fact, like he was informing me that he was going to eat the last donut in a box.

  I asked him why he thought that.

  His answer chilled me to the bone. He said, “Because sooner or later, we’ll all be monsters here.”

  There was a lot more to that conversation, but I can’t quote it. He basically explained his thoughts, and some of them were thoughts I’d had, but not all. Because I’ve been thinking of my nanites, I hadn’t really considered everyone else’s as deeply as I should. Yes, I know I’ve mentioned that I worried they’ll all become nanite monsters, but I also thought if we could ride it out until their nanites went away—much like mine will do—then maybe they could survive longer. Unfortunately, I discovered that my nanites are different from most of theirs.