EOW - End of World - Journal of Gabriel Shaw – survivor.
I'd lost track of time. Days turned to weeks – but time has become fragmented – my recent memories seem more like bits of reflected images on shattered glass than tangible moments. Alone and with my supplies dwindling, I located a rowboat along a shore and pushed out into the water. I had resigned myself to an end at sea. I was so at ease with the idea that I slept as I hadn’t slept in a long time. I didn’t care if I drowned. There was something peaceful in considering such a death, fear being replaced by a certain sense of dignity. Better to die this way, than in the myriad horrific ways I had witnessed in recent times.
I woke to rain. To my surprise, I was drenched. The small boat was filling with water. It scared me, until I noticed I’d run aground on the shore. I looked around, counting myself lucky for not having come across one of the Mansons. It was the name I’d taken to calling the infected, savage, things that roamed the landscape. Where it concerns my sense of humor, I have never been accused of good taste. Initially, they’d reminded me of the queued masses at one of my book tours, but somehow it seemed unfair to compare what had been annoyances in my former life with these twisted creatures. I grabbed what was salvageable from the boat and ran onto the beach and then onto a coastal road. After a while I came across a sprawling city. Not the kind of city I’d come to know in the States but for this small nation it was a metropolis. I passed a wrecked hotel, demolished by an airliner of all things. I said a prayer for the lost souls and moved on to a police station.
The station seemed deserted. I entered and searched the various rooms looking for anything useful. Eventually, I ended up on the roof. I walked the perimeter searching the immediate vicinity for other survivors or any sign of the Mansons. I saw nothing, but from the darkness of the stairwell behind me I heard a voice, “Don’t move,” it commanded.
Stupidly, I turned and stared into the darkness. “Not going anywhere.”
“Get down on the ground.”
I dropped to my knees.
“All the way down,” the voice commanded again – this time sounding annoyed. I went down onto my belly and lay unmoving.
Satisfied that I was no longer a threat the man moved onto the roof and approached his rifle at the ready. “Name?” he asked.
“Gabriel,” I answered shivering.
In the dusky darkness, I could see that the man was dressed in the type of vest that so many journalists wore in all of the embed television footage I’d viewed from various Middle Eastern war zones. There was little doubt that this was not somebody affiliated with a media outfit.
“Well Gabriel,” he said calmly. “I don’t intend to kill you.” He walked nearer and examined my gear, regarding it with what seemed pity. “Instead, I’d like you to deliver a message to the marshals.”
“I can do that,” I whispered.
Here the memory becomes less clear. A mixture of fear and adrenaline makes for a pretty heady cocktail and so I can’t be blamed for having a less than stellar recollection, but the man mentioned something about, “No body. No crime.” I thought he’d said it was his name – but unless the man was certifiable – I can’t believe I heard him right.
He looked around seeming unconcerned with me at this point, likely content in the knowledge that I had no manner of weapon within my possession with which to take him on. “Tell the marshals, I have a surprise for them.”
The way he said it indicated that he wanted me to acknowledge that I was going to deliver that message correctly.
“I’ll tell them that… no body no crime, has a surprise for them.”
He’d already stepped back several paces but the grin was unmistakable. This pigeon would carry his message. “I’m going to leave now. You’re not to move until I’ve been gone for several minutes. Any sooner and I’ll finish you.”
I nodded. A sense of relief allowed the fear of this confrontation to take hold. My head dropped, my face pressing hard against the asphalt sheeting that served as the station’s roof. I took in shallow breaths and did not move for what seemed a long while. When I finally felt that the man was long gone, I made my way down to the lower level and out onto the street where I sat gulping in the cool night air.
As I composed myself, my mind screamed chastisements – You God damned fool! Get the hell out of this city – take to the hills and leave the world behind! The world has left you, return the favor! I looked into the distance, seeing mountains and trees, it seemed as good an idea as I’d had to this point. I’d leave the remains of the cities and towns to the vultures that invariably circled such carnage. I would take my chances alone out in the hinter rather than compete with the cockroaches that inhabited these ruins. It was a resolve that took hold of me and set my feet to moving. Strange how the best laid plans are oft set to ruin by the smallest turns of fate. I’d gone only a few miles when from the darkness another man emerged. He did not brandish a weapon. Instead he seemed relieved to have wandered across another survivor. “Truxtun’s the name,” he said offering his hand.
I'd lost track of time. Days turned to weeks – but time has become fragmented – my recent memories seem more like bits of reflected images on shattered glass than tangible moments. Alone and with my supplies dwindling, I located a rowboat along a shore and pushed out into the water. I had resigned myself to an end at sea. I was so at ease with the idea that I slept as I hadn’t slept in a long time. I didn’t care if I drowned. There was something peaceful in considering such a death, fear being replaced by a certain sense of dignity. Better to die this way, than in the myriad horrific ways I had witnessed in recent times.
I woke to rain. To my surprise, I was drenched. The small boat was filling with water. It scared me, until I noticed I’d run aground on the shore. I looked around, counting myself lucky for not having come across one of the Mansons. It was the name I’d taken to calling the infected, savage, things that roamed the landscape. Where it concerns my sense of humor, I have never been accused of good taste. Initially, they’d reminded me of the queued masses at one of my book tours, but somehow it seemed unfair to compare what had been annoyances in my former life with these twisted creatures. I grabbed what was salvageable from the boat and ran onto the beach and then onto a coastal road. After a while I came across a sprawling city. Not the kind of city I’d come to know in the States but for this small nation it was a metropolis. I passed a wrecked hotel, demolished by an airliner of all things. I said a prayer for the lost souls and moved on to a police station.
The station seemed deserted. I entered and searched the various rooms looking for anything useful. Eventually, I ended up on the roof. I walked the perimeter searching the immediate vicinity for other survivors or any sign of the Mansons. I saw nothing, but from the darkness of the stairwell behind me I heard a voice, “Don’t move,” it commanded.
Stupidly, I turned and stared into the darkness. “Not going anywhere.”
“Get down on the ground.”
I dropped to my knees.
“All the way down,” the voice commanded again – this time sounding annoyed. I went down onto my belly and lay unmoving.
Satisfied that I was no longer a threat the man moved onto the roof and approached his rifle at the ready. “Name?” he asked.
“Gabriel,” I answered shivering.
In the dusky darkness, I could see that the man was dressed in the type of vest that so many journalists wore in all of the embed television footage I’d viewed from various Middle Eastern war zones. There was little doubt that this was not somebody affiliated with a media outfit.
“Well Gabriel,” he said calmly. “I don’t intend to kill you.” He walked nearer and examined my gear, regarding it with what seemed pity. “Instead, I’d like you to deliver a message to the marshals.”
“I can do that,” I whispered.
Here the memory becomes less clear. A mixture of fear and adrenaline makes for a pretty heady cocktail and so I can’t be blamed for having a less than stellar recollection, but the man mentioned something about, “No body. No crime.” I thought he’d said it was his name – but unless the man was certifiable – I can’t believe I heard him right.
He looked around seeming unconcerned with me at this point, likely content in the knowledge that I had no manner of weapon within my possession with which to take him on. “Tell the marshals, I have a surprise for them.”
The way he said it indicated that he wanted me to acknowledge that I was going to deliver that message correctly.
“I’ll tell them that… no body no crime, has a surprise for them.”
He’d already stepped back several paces but the grin was unmistakable. This pigeon would carry his message. “I’m going to leave now. You’re not to move until I’ve been gone for several minutes. Any sooner and I’ll finish you.”
I nodded. A sense of relief allowed the fear of this confrontation to take hold. My head dropped, my face pressing hard against the asphalt sheeting that served as the station’s roof. I took in shallow breaths and did not move for what seemed a long while. When I finally felt that the man was long gone, I made my way down to the lower level and out onto the street where I sat gulping in the cool night air.
As I composed myself, my mind screamed chastisements – You God damned fool! Get the hell out of this city – take to the hills and leave the world behind! The world has left you, return the favor! I looked into the distance, seeing mountains and trees, it seemed as good an idea as I’d had to this point. I’d leave the remains of the cities and towns to the vultures that invariably circled such carnage. I would take my chances alone out in the hinter rather than compete with the cockroaches that inhabited these ruins. It was a resolve that took hold of me and set my feet to moving. Strange how the best laid plans are oft set to ruin by the smallest turns of fate. I’d gone only a few miles when from the darkness another man emerged. He did not brandish a weapon. Instead he seemed relieved to have wandered across another survivor. “Truxtun’s the name,” he said offering his hand.