June 22, 2023
Dear Journal,
It's been exactly six months since the world ended.
Funny, right? Six months ago, I was complaining about my job, the weather, overpriced coffee. Now I'm sitting on the dusty floor of an abandoned farmhouse, using the last stub of a pencil to write down thoughts I never thought I'd live to have. The paper's yellowed, torn at the corners. The ink smudges when I breathe too hard. Still, it's something. I think I need this—something that listens without asking for anything in return.
The farmhouse creaks with every gust of wind. It used to be someone's home. There are pictures still on the walls—sun-faded faces of smiling children, grandparents, dogs. I don't know what happened to them. I don't ask. None of us do anymore. There are six of us now, not counting the baby. We sleep in shifts, keep watch in pairs. At night, we block the windows with boards and hope the groaning outside doesn't get closer.
This morning started the same as yesterday. Gray light bleeding through broken blinds. The sound of distant growls carried on the wind. We've heard them for weeks, getting louder, bolder. Maybe the horde's moving again. Maybe they've picked up our scent.
I volunteered to join the supply run today. We're down to three cans of beans and a bag of rice that smells like mildew. Naomi warned us not to risk the town—said it was too quiet lately—but we don't have a choice anymore. Hunger makes the decisions for us.
We geared up just after sunrise. Makeshift weapons: a crowbar, a rusted machete, a bat wrapped in barbed wire. We still have one pistol between us with four bullets. We save those for emergencies. The real kind—the ones where you can't scream while you die.
As we approached the town, everything felt wrong. Too still. Too… empty. You'd think that's a good thing, but quiet means one of two things: everything's dead, or something's watching. Probably both.
The supermarket was surprisingly intact. Shelves looted, of course, but not empty. We moved like shadows, scooping up cans, boxed meals, medicine—anything light and useful. A couple of us laughed when we found a stash of chocolate bars in the freezer section. It was the first time I'd heard laughter in weeks.
The pharmacy was harder. Everything picked clean. We had to dig through overturned shelves, smashed drawers. Found some antibiotics, a half-full bottle of painkillers, and a box of bandages that smelled like bleach. Better than nothing.
The way back should've been routine. We stuck to the alleys, kept low, watched the rooftops. Then we heard it—the unmistakable sound of shuffling feet and a wet, guttural moan. The group froze.
They were slow, as always. But they weren't alone. One of them must've let out a howl—called the others. It wasn't long before we were surrounded.
We fought. We always fight. That's the only way to stay alive.
Sarah was the first to fall. She slipped trying to climb over a collapsed fence, twisted her ankle. One of them grabbed her before we could pull her up. I'll never forget the look she gave me—terror, acceptance, gratitude—all in one breath. We couldn't save her. We didn't try. There wasn't time.
We made it back with the supplies. But the cost… I don't think any of us have the strength to talk about it yet.
I sit here now with her scarf in my lap. It's soaked in blood, torn at one edge. I don't know why I kept it. Maybe as a reminder. Maybe because forgetting her would be worse than remembering.
We light a candle for her tonight. We'll say a few words, though none of us are good at that anymore. Then we'll eat a chocolate bar in her name.
I don't know what tomorrow looks like. Maybe there won't be one. But if there is, I'll write again.
Yours sincerely,
J.K.