the plague is everywhere, it's worldwide, governments are in chaos, but I can't mingle with humans much longer. I expect it will be an easier task to search out someone like me in some place where the army is not in such tight control.
Already there are sores erupting behind my knees, between my toes, in my crotch, and beneath my arms. Places where air doesn't circulate enough.
I won't be able to pass as the living forever. I will make my escape and my search now before I have to begin repair on all these putrefying body parts.
I have been dead a week.
June 8
There were some men and women traveling alone. I didn't stand out so badly. I kept my distance as best I could. I had to concentrate. I had to keep my eyes lowered so the soldiers and the passersby couldn't see that my eyes are sunken and they have no sheen. No moisture. It's getting more difficult to close my eyelids. I haven't any pain, but the grating of lid on eyeball is unnerving. Like sandpaper over old dry wood. I can actually feel them grinding down when I try to blink.
And the sun is terrible, a fiery ball hanging overhead burning, scorching my back and shoulders, the top of my head. I should have taken a hat. I've been so stupid. I often catch myself gazing longingly at the refrigeration trucks. I could lie down and let the cold halt the deterioration of my cells. I could let the frost cover me over like silken threads.
A stranger came alongside to walk with me a ways. I was grateful there was hardly any breeze to waft my scent to him. He tried to hold a conversation just as I feared he would.
"Goddamn shame we're run out of the cities," he said. "The damn military thinks they can tell us when to take a crap and when not to. Myself, I'm going down to stay in my old fishing camp at Duck Key. Got enough ammunition here"--he hooked a thumb over his shoulder at a shopping cart he hauled behind him loaded with goods--"to blast any crazy dead fuck wants to mess with me."
I nodded. Took my pad and pen from my shirt pocket and wrote, "I'm sorry, "I can't speak. I had an operation. Cancer."
"Well, hell, that's too bad," he said. And then he proceeded to bitch about everything under the sun for the next two hours while I nodded and plodded and concentrated on keeping my feet in time with his and my fingers loose. And my gaze down.
I really wanted to tell him. Tell him shut up! You're alive so don't complain, not about anything. Try feeling some kind of elation now. Feel some joy and love because dead isn't dead and being alive is all there is, no matter how bad you might think it is, and there is no God, THERE IS NO GOD.
I told him nothing. I was a sounding board while the day waned, the sun creeped to the horizon, and the families drifted off into the grasses to build summer cooking fires. Still the trucks rumbled past, armed guards eying the crowds that lined the pavement.
Finally my companion gave out. I waved goodbye while he called at my back, "You be careful on the road when it's getting dark! Don't take any shit off them assholes who come stumbling outta the dark, hear?"
I waved. I went forward at a pace that would have winded a living man and put distance between me and anyone else who looked as if he might want to join up for a little chat.
I'm writing this by firelight. All alone now. I see other fires from here, but the people are tiny black midget shadows moving about beneath a full moon. The trucks are fewer, the night is coming on thick and deep. Crickets chirp nearby, a reedy chorus, and bullfrogs croak down in the ditches. There are a few fleecy clouds overhead. A thousand stars shining down on this desperate planet.
I stare at the open sky and wish to feel some kind of pleasure. I try very hard to feel something besides this cloak of loneliness and utter hopelessness. It's as if the numbness has also reached my heart and turned it to stone.
Nothing comes to me, nothing enters into my thoughts, but dread. That and the creeping pain of
Already there are sores erupting behind my knees, between my toes, in my crotch, and beneath my arms. Places where air doesn't circulate enough.
I won't be able to pass as the living forever. I will make my escape and my search now before I have to begin repair on all these putrefying body parts.
I have been dead a week.
June 8
There were some men and women traveling alone. I didn't stand out so badly. I kept my distance as best I could. I had to concentrate. I had to keep my eyes lowered so the soldiers and the passersby couldn't see that my eyes are sunken and they have no sheen. No moisture. It's getting more difficult to close my eyelids. I haven't any pain, but the grating of lid on eyeball is unnerving. Like sandpaper over old dry wood. I can actually feel them grinding down when I try to blink.
And the sun is terrible, a fiery ball hanging overhead burning, scorching my back and shoulders, the top of my head. I should have taken a hat. I've been so stupid. I often catch myself gazing longingly at the refrigeration trucks. I could lie down and let the cold halt the deterioration of my cells. I could let the frost cover me over like silken threads.
A stranger came alongside to walk with me a ways. I was grateful there was hardly any breeze to waft my scent to him. He tried to hold a conversation just as I feared he would.
"Goddamn shame we're run out of the cities," he said. "The damn military thinks they can tell us when to take a crap and when not to. Myself, I'm going down to stay in my old fishing camp at Duck Key. Got enough ammunition here"--he hooked a thumb over his shoulder at a shopping cart he hauled behind him loaded with goods--"to blast any crazy dead fuck wants to mess with me."
I nodded. Took my pad and pen from my shirt pocket and wrote, "I'm sorry, "I can't speak. I had an operation. Cancer."
"Well, hell, that's too bad," he said. And then he proceeded to bitch about everything under the sun for the next two hours while I nodded and plodded and concentrated on keeping my feet in time with his and my fingers loose. And my gaze down.
I really wanted to tell him. Tell him shut up! You're alive so don't complain, not about anything. Try feeling some kind of elation now. Feel some joy and love because dead isn't dead and being alive is all there is, no matter how bad you might think it is, and there is no God, THERE IS NO GOD.
I told him nothing. I was a sounding board while the day waned, the sun creeped to the horizon, and the families drifted off into the grasses to build summer cooking fires. Still the trucks rumbled past, armed guards eying the crowds that lined the pavement.
Finally my companion gave out. I waved goodbye while he called at my back, "You be careful on the road when it's getting dark! Don't take any shit off them assholes who come stumbling outta the dark, hear?"
I waved. I went forward at a pace that would have winded a living man and put distance between me and anyone else who looked as if he might want to join up for a little chat.
I'm writing this by firelight. All alone now. I see other fires from here, but the people are tiny black midget shadows moving about beneath a full moon. The trucks are fewer, the night is coming on thick and deep. Crickets chirp nearby, a reedy chorus, and bullfrogs croak down in the ditches. There are a few fleecy clouds overhead. A thousand stars shining down on this desperate planet.
I stare at the open sky and wish to feel some kind of pleasure. I try very hard to feel something besides this cloak of loneliness and utter hopelessness. It's as if the numbness has also reached my heart and turned it to stone.
Nothing comes to me, nothing enters into my thoughts, but dread. That and the creeping pain of
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