triumph and tragedy
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Triumph and Tragedy
by Owen Donohue
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Tales from a forgotten land
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13 October
For the purpose of this journey I am using this journal in which important
events and experiences will be recorded. Today we have escaped the grasps of
Abdullah and the country that he ruled in brutal tyranny. My brother and uncle
have joined me on this crude raft today as we head west, my wise uncle tells me.
If by any chance I do not survive this trip I am leaving behind a recollection of
my attempt at freedom. God help me through this journey that I may survive but
if the time comes I wish the world will know my fate and the atrocities of the life
I left behind.
By the way, my uncle wrote that first paragraph. Hes the dramatic type
you might say.
My name is Qaheer Abadi. I am fifteen years old I think and my brother
says he is nineteen. His name is Izzat. We are both orphans with no family other
than our uncle if he really is our uncle. His name is Abdul but we call him Uncle
because that is what he likes to be called. He has been the person who has led us
through life, and although he may not be the most honest man, he cares enough
to keep us alive and safe and that is what matters to me. My brother thinks
otherwise. Hes a rebel.
I am a devout Christian as is my Uncle. This is not appreciated by the
Islamic Sharia Law that governed our former country, so we are not public for
risk of death. Yes, death.
Today is an exciting day and I will write as much as my hand permits.
Uncle says we have escaped, Izzat is not too sure. That is to say, escaped from
Saudi Arabia, through the Red Sea and into Cairo to the United States Embassy.
At least, that is the plan. I dont know what it will be like in Cairo or the United
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States Embassy. I have only left Al Medina once in my life, to go to Al Riyadh
the capital. That was when we both still had a father, so I do not remember. Izzat
does and sometimes he talks about it like I wasnt there.
What happened was that after our father died, our uncle took us in to his
own house and things started to get bad quickly. Our uncle could not pay his
debts with the Saudi government and our way of life deteriorated. We resorted to
stealing and begging but I never had the balls to steal, only Izzat and Uncle
Abdul did. Once Uncle even ran away from the police and he doesnt talk about
that, not never. Izzat says he got caught stealing and a few hundred policemen
appeared out of nowhere started chasing him and it was just like the movies. I
used to believe my brother but I dont now. He thinks Im stupid but Im not.
Anyways there was an uprising a few months ago in Egypt and democracy
has taken over. Meanwhile in Arabia there were executions every month at least
in public. Chop-chop square they call it in Al Riyadh and people would get killed
with a sword there. Im glad I was too young to remember but Uncle says it was
horrible.
The Sharia law says that thieves can get killed after four times. My uncle
only has two more shots. One of Izzats school friends has been convicted
three times.
That is why we are here on this boat. Politics.
My uncle is a man with very strong feelings. When he sees the news on
television or paper or radio he can get very worked up so much that a younger
me would have been quite scared. He feels particularly strongly about the overly
Islamic law in Saudi society or something like that. So one day we (as in our
uncle) decided to run away and he has planned this out for months and now it is
really happening.
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My hand is getting tired, maybe Ill write later.
6:30
I want to take these few final moments of light to say that the view is
amazing from this tiny boat. We have probably 1000 kilometres more on this
journey but we must go further north and risk everything if the Egyptian police
see us.
I can hardly see my hand now so I must stop. I will write more tomorrow.
14 October
Today I will not write as much because before was more of an
introduction to my life, explanation of this journal and of that sort of material.
Today I will record more physical events to pass on to the United States Embassy
if or if I do not survive the journey.
Here is an inventory for the reader of this journal that I have written out of
boredom and curiosity:
5 days of canned foods (my uncle saved up for a long time)
5 days of fresh waterstolen
4 pocketknives (we each have one, my uncle two)
A raft made of tires, scrap wood and metal
Journal + pen
Cellular phone
Revolversix rounds
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There it is. That I think is all we have with us on our way to freedom and
may God make them last and let us survive.
Nothing eventful happened today.
15 October
I woke up to shouting and seeing land. Disappointingly, it was Saudi
Arabian territory. My uncle and brother were fighting and arguing over whose
fault it was and which direction to go now. I cant deal with this madness.
(later)
Saw a flying fish. It was amazing.
16 October
As pathetic as this may sound I am beginning to feel homesick. I know
that the life I left behind was living hell but as much as I hated it I am doubting
the success in our plan. I will write now, write to take my mind off things, write
for comfort, write out of sheer boredom. Blah blah blah blah what should I write
about? I am fifteen years old and I have an uncle and brother. Here are some of
the few things that I enjoyed back home:
A bath. I had baths every now and then. It may not seem like much to rich
folks in America but wow, was it ever a great feeling to be that clean if this was a
sea of clean water would I drink all of it or what.
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One of my favorite places to be is in front of a nice, warm fireplace. Im
careful not to get too close, even though I love the feel of my worn-out old socks
when they get all toasty. Every time I smell that familiar smell of logs burning,
Im reminded ofthe many camping trips I took as a child. It all makes me wantto poke some food on a long, twiggy stick and toast it over the flames until its
dark brown.
All this writing about comforts is making me hungry and lonely. Not
working like I thought it would. Oh, well. We will surely have those types of
things in America.
Hopefully.
17 October
I dont understand. Fifth day at sea and still no sign of land. We were
supposed to see the Sinai Peninsula or something like that. I pray to God that we
arent going the wrong way. PLEASE DONT LET THAT HAPPEN.
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Jesus Im panicked. I just dont know what to do. I have no knowledge
when it comes to sailing or navigation, nor do my brother or uncle for that
matter. Still I dont know what the hell to do. I pray I pray that were going the
right way.
18 October
They say there are sharks in the Red Sea.
I wonder if theyre right because it looks like a storm is coming.
(later)
Please God dont let us into that storm. Now all three of us are rowing the
hell out of ourselves and I hope it doesnt happen. If this book survives tell the
world how it is. PLEASE.
20 October (maybe?)
I remember everything that happened. To start off, it was a storm of epic
proportions. I dont mean a breezy gale that could knock three people off of a
poorly built raft; Im talking about a hurricane or cyclone, at least thats what
Uncle said.
The sea was very choppy to begin with, and we could tell this from the
bobbing of the raft. Waves began to get higher and higher, tossing us around inthe night. At this point I begin to crack. I begin to notice how very alone we are
in this seemingly endless ocean. I realized that we could not possibly be in the
right place because we saw no land whatsoever and the water seemed much
deeper than before. Dark clouds moved above us and waves stopped being
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uniform and continued to barrel into our puny raft from every single direction.
Thunder, then lightning. It was austere. Gusts of wind threatened to take our sail
and possibly our lives as we hung on perilously.
To make a long story short, we nearly died during that storm.
And here we are now, sitting on this island.
As far as I can tell, there is no plant life. It is almost entirely rock,
probably a few hundred feet across and a few hundred in length. I dont have a
clue were it is.
Heres a revised inventory for whoever finds thisjournal:
________________________
2 pocketknives
2 useless bullets
This journal and pen
Broken cellular phone
________________________
Basically, nothing of use.
This is my only comfort. My only comfort in the whole wide world.
Writing can stop me from the madness that is to come I swear on the cross of
Jesus it is. My uncle is weak and my brother refuses to talk.
They say Moses parted the Red Sea for the Israelites in Egypt. It sure as
hell isnt opening up for us now.
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Ha! Ha!
21 October
A plane passed overhead but did not stop. My brother and I ripped off our
shirts and started frantically waving and shouting for help, but it was no use.
Whoever was flying either didnt have the kindness to get help or simply didnt
see us. Thats the first time any sign of life has been seen by us for 8 days.
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A day has passed and my uncle is weaker. I dont think he will survive the
days to come. His back has a gigantic gash right through it.
I can see bone.
22 October
I want to be a lawyer when I grew up. You see, with my uncle being all
into politics and whatnot, I developed and learned in a very law-based life. The
Islamic law is what I am mainly opposed to and scared of because it is unjust and
harsh. If only King Abdullah could see the damage he has done to his own
country with these ridiculous laws.
The use of capital punishment in Saudi Arabia is, like I said before, based
on Islamic Sharia law because Islam is the national religion (you have no say in
this, you are born Islam in Saudi Arabia). Its usually done by beheading the
person. Sometimes the beheaded body is crucified like that of our Lord Jesus
Christ.
23 October
I am so weak I can hardly write anything today.
25 october
to whoever finds this please
The memoirs of a convict
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The prison cell was dirty to say the least. The walls were encrusted with
filthy remains of disease and bad memories. They closed in. I could not escape
the endless, darkened wait to freedom. I sat in the corner of the chilly room,
where the sharp edges met into vicious corners in the small, cramped cells. The
walls, unpainted, connected each corner forming a perfectly shaped square room.
The uneven stone on each of the four walls carried a burden of memories where
psychotic men drawing closer and closer to the jaws of death had been scratching
at the walls. Looking up from the corner of the cell, my light flickered as moths
flutter around it finding the only hope and light that is left in the prison.
The door. The mocking soft brown of the wood showed where previous
prisoners had clawed in a bid for a desperate escape from their fate. Some people
had scratched indecipherable words in to the wood, maybe a warning for those
who entered, maybe half crazed scribbling of people gone mad. The natural lines
of wood echoed the rest of my prison made of natural resources that should have
been warm and homely but had been turned in to something cold and unfeeling
by the greyness that illuminated my cell. The stones huge and grey, slotted
together in an uneven arch surrounding the door, like a padlock that told me I
would never be free. The brass handle protruding from the door, dirtied from the
many futile attempts to turn it and the keyhole wide and round, an entrance to
another world, teasing me.
The room held one bed and a basin for a lavatory. The bed was rusty and
only five feet long, with no mattress and a single sheet covered in suspicious
stains. The stone flood was covered in small, dead bugs. Around these bugs small
bits of dried blood were visible from attempted suicides, perhaps. Some
succeeded, so they say. Some lived the rest of his life in pain and torment. Some
returned to the claustrophobic cell for years on end.
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It was about time for the guard to pass on his hourly patrol. His steel
capped boots were audible all throughout the prison, clacking together ominously
with slow, steady anticipation rising in each prisoner as he made his way around
the perimeter. Men shivered in darkness, knowing the job of this man and whathe would do to them in the near future. Every night, just as he would reach my
cell, he would, ever so slowly, turn back the way he came from. I could not tell
why he did this but it occurred to me that this was the end of the hallway and I
was the last cell. This was a start to finding out where I was in this endless
labyrinth of a prison. The first time I woke up I knew not wether it was day or
night, hot or cold, or where I was. It was one of the worst feelings I have ever
known.
I wrote that in my journal, my prize possession in prison. These are the actual
events that happened to me while in prison for two years for extended drug
abuse.
Prison smelled terrible. Nobody ever flushes the toilet. The only reason prisons
look clean in the pictures is because we ave to clean them all day. The first time I
smelled cologne out in the real world was amazing.
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After a while, drugs became a viable option. If a man can smuggle drugs
on the outside in the real world, he can do it inside the prison, for a better price,
weird as it may be. I decided to get onto heroin after about six months because I
simply couldnt deal with the pain and everything. Id tried it once outside of
prison and I didnt like it. In the current situation, however, I was stupid and
decided to take it anyway. The problem was the stuff that it was cut with. Baking
soda, crystals, flour would not normally be inside your vein. So after a while, my
body was full of stuff I never dreamed of putting into me. Not to mention the
rumored AIDS epidemic hitting prisons like bombs. So I grew my nails long
enough to cut myself in the leg to put tablets inside of me.
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Things were rough.
In the 80s or even earlier, prisons were full of stupid cliquesgangs,
religion, or simply ethnicity. There were mostly Islamic gangs because it was the
predominant religion, and the only one tolerated by the Saudi Arabian
government. Even white collars stuck together to keep out of trouble. Now,
everything is set in this atmosphere of intense paranoia. Its basically every man
for himself. Most people spend time working out alone or ignoring other
cellmates.
I saw more than a few deaths inside prison. I think seven, if Im correct.
One was a gunshot to a guy who tried to escape. Three of them were beatingsfrom the guards. The other ones were stabbings or more accurately, digging a
hole. The problem with makeshift shivs are that they arent sharp enough to kill
or do too much damage. It brings me great pain to write this, but what people
would do is, stab real quick and start pulling everything out. Eventually, people
died. Some inexperienced first-timer who thought he was the king of the jail tried
that crap and got himself busted in solitary for a month.
I didnt really have many friends in prison. There was this one who was
using heroin while driving, and he was serving much longer than I was, probably
because he was an immigrant. The fact that I was well spoken and Muslim
went a long way with the authorities. We werent cell mates but occa sionally got
to see each other at lunch or some other time during the day. He was probably
my closest ally in prison and after he got transferred thats when I started using.
Second guy was also on drugs but this time it was opium. He was really
scared about the whole thing. He probably wet the bed every day of the week
when he first came in. I tried to ease some heroin onto him to adjust, but it was a
big mistake. The guy got hooked after one time.
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Anyways, Im trying to say that prison was the worst. There isnt a
convict alive who doesnt look back on prison and shudder. There isnt a guy
who doesnt look back and see all the bad memories that it gave him or regret
what he was in for.
Thats it for now. Im a free man.
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Brothers and bodies
I had a feeling something was coming. That feeling had been in my bones
since the day I learned to talk. When I was six I dreamed that the world had
ended and I was the last one standing. I saw the bodies of my family and I didnt
sleep for days at a time, living in complete fear of the apocalypse. I built a bomb
shelter with my cousin one year and thats when people backed off. I was an
outcast; nobody believed me or believed in me, not even my own dad. Every day
I knew that something terrible was going to happen but no one listens, do they?
Most people hated it when I talked about it and told me to shut up or chill out but
theres this anxiety deep within me that says somethings going to happen, right?
And so I wouldnt shut up.
Knock it off, they said. Are you serious? they said.
They called me stupid, weird, whatever. The point is, no one believed a
word that came out of my mouth. Not a damn word.
Not until now, when the disease has officially killed 87 percent of the
worlds population. I wish they could see what Ive been trying to tell them, but
its too late. Everyone I know is dead.
I dont know why, but this I told you so isnt making me feel any better.
When people ask me how I survive, it doesnt seem like my time
consuming preparations that took years got me where I am right now. Anyone
who knew me would say my survival was simply dumb luck. They would tell me
all of my endless planning would be entirely useless if I wasnt immune to the
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disease. In a way, they are right. However I disagree with that. What I believe is
that God gives people foresight and if they dont use it its their own fault. Im
only immune to the pathogen that has killed billions of people because I prepared
for this and I trained for this type of situation. My friends and family, they didntprepare like I did. Now theyre dead and Im alive.
I used to work at the fire department in the other world, the other time. As
a paramedic. I never really connected with my fellow firemen and they used to
joke around about me; I was used to it and it didnt really bother me. Anyways,
once the infection started spreading at a slow rate, several months ago, a few of
them started taking me seriously and sucking up to me. It got me thinking, in the
event that this turns out to be a large-scale blow to humanity, everyone is going
to want what I have.
And I was right. Civilization collapsed and just as I predicted, the friends
of mine who had survived on dumb luck through the epidemic flooded my front
lawn, begging for help. They took a few of their friends with them, too. I saw at
least thirty of those miserable wretches dying and suffering, threatening and
attacking on my own front lawn. I didnt store food, water, weapons, electricity,
and gas for years just to waste it on people who didnt appreciate me and had no
foresight. I was very explicit in telling them I could not help them. I told them
specifically to leave and I wished them luck. Still they would not listen, so I fired
a few rounds to scare them off. They didnt take me seriously, after all these
years. They thought I was some kind of gracious fool who gave away his earned
rations to people that didnt care for him, only his supplies. I wouldnt simply
sacrifice my own healthy lifestyle for their own petty ones. Their pitiful begging
didnt change my mind. I had no choice but to kill the ones that had the audacity
to stay and beg. I used the mounted maching gun on the roof of my two-story
fortified house. I wanted to bury them like a proper human being, but my level of
immunity was still too weak for that amount of exposed disease for me to exit the
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house. I planned not to have to. It didnt really matter, because the bodies simply
rotted away after some months with no help from my own hands. I didnt have
to do a thing. I felt sort of guilty, but one has little to no room for that sort of
thing in the world that was about to come. Besides, my mentality for emotion isalready that of a sociopathic person.
Instead of hanging on to this experience, I just settled down and waited for
the issue to die down.
Nearly two years passed by and I still had an abundance of supplies.
I spent most of my free time killing boredom with the old xBox and
magazines. By the year was up I had read all of them ten times and beat all of my
xBox games. Life was dull.
I had almost gone insane. Almost two years had passed and I had no
human contact. I dont think whoever will read this understands the madness that
means. Three years with out seeing a single living soul. That is, until one day that
I was out scavenging.
I slowly opened the door of my fortified house, the place I had eaten and
slept for years. I had with me a hunting knife, a flashlight, and my trusty
revolver. When I walked out the door, everything looked different.
The wasteland that was my neighborhood was deteriorated. My front lawn
had grass that was a few feet tall. Anything that was left of human remains hit
me like a stink bomb, rotten and disgusting. Sections of the brick wall
surrounding my home still stood ominously as I walked slowly outside and
waited for my eyes to adjust to the bright light.
I took off my glasses and I wiped them on the corner of my t-shirt riddled
with holes. They were really dusty, even after only a minute outside. After I
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cleaned them, I tied a bandana around my face, put my pistol in its holster, and
walked away towards the early morning sun.
I strolled up the hilly street that led east. The signpost had long been
scrapped for weapons or metal. Probably gangs of thieves desperate to survive
just like anyone else out here. The street was littered with trash and hopeless
barricades that did nothing to block out the pathogen that killed so many of the
human race and nearly all in this neighborhood. Populations are still reclining.
You would think that the government would have something to do with this, but
no. Nothing had happened and anarchy ensued, causing more death than ever
before.
As soon as the top of the hill was visible, another, larger street appeared. I
took a left turn on this one, which would lead me directly to the communitys
shopping center. This was my plan. I needed to get food, water, and other
supplies. Medicine. Toilet paper, if I was lucky. Humanity could survive for
generations without electricity, running water, and cooked food, but take away
the toilet paper and everyones going down.
At this point I begin to see larger barricades. A gigantic 16-wheeler lies
diagonally across the road, tipped on its side and full of holes and dents. Another
smaller car sits upside down, crushed. Two of the houses to my left are no longer
standing. They are simply empty spaces with a bunch of crap thrown into them,
together in a gigantic pile of rubble. The rest of the dwellings are in poor shape
as well. Chips and gashes into the sides of the foundations mark a world changed
by an apocalyptic event, and it gives me a sobering feel as I walk down the road
for the first time in years.
I see the shopping center. Its actually looking better than I expected.
Although there is no longer any glass on the windows, I can see displays of food
(rotted by now, of course) and fine china, unbroken by this shaken world.
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Its eerily normal.
One of the signs above the door says, Vintage clothing. I peer in one of
the glassless windows and see mannequins, one of them lying on the floor and
holding its hands out in a pose as if they were humans.
As if.
I just stand there awhile, taking it all in, wondering why this is all still so
perfectly intact. Then it hits me: nobody is left in this town. Either we were the
first to go or most people moved when they heard about this new disease
spreading in the area.
II start to dance with one of the mannequins. I know this sounds stupid
but think about it. Not seeing a single person in over a year? Theres nothing that
stopped me, nobody was there to judge me. Even so, there was a part of me that
was judging myself, so I felt the tiniest bit embarrassed (and maybe a little
insane) and consequently stopped.
I set down the mannequin and looked around the boutique. There were
some pretty classy outfits and a few pieces of fine jewelry, but that wasnt the
point. The reason I went here was a simple one. I knew that the store had a radio.
That radio could be used to contact other survivors. I hardly even need to think
about it. Its the obvious thing to do in a situation like this (I learned this from
every disaster movie ever made).
Also, not many people would think to look in a place like this for toilet
paper. I did because its pretty large and has a bathroom, oddly enough.
Anyways.
I go through the back hallway and find the bathroom. Sure enough, there
it is. The place obviously didnt have running water still, but someone had filled
the sink recently, which means
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Theres someone else here.
Or, more likely, they left. Who the hell lives in a vintage clothing store? I
have to say, its smart if somebody managed to survive here. Fabric kills germs,
and fabric is literally everywhere in this place. The possibility that theres
someone else here just doesnt seem plausible to me. Even so, I prepare myself to
search for life. I wet down my hair, sweaty from rising temperatures outside, and
then drink the rest of the water quickly.
I take out my hunting knife, just in case.
Not sure if its the right approach, but I cautiously go down into the
basement of the boutique to see whos here. Knife held out with my right hand, I
make a cross with my hands and flick on the flashlight in my left. Just like a
scene out of a horror movie. I try and keep calm.
The stairs are open and wooden, which makes it really hard to conceal
yourself. I dont want to be creeping up on someone who might kill me in self-
defense, but I also dont want to shout out to someone who might kill me for my
supplies anyways. After all this time with no human contact, I dont even know
how to talk to a real person anymore. I might ruin my chances at survival if I
dont handle this situation correctly and leave a good impression on the person or
people who are down here.
I take a deep breath, revealing myself like a ginger in a pack of brunettes.
Idiot, I scream inside my head, as I try and conceal myself from whatever
lies ahead. Although, whats the point now that I already gave myself away?
I decide to say hello.
Except it comes out more like He-*cough* Hello?
I waited.
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And waited.
And waited some more.
Then, just as I was about to walk back up the stairs, a raspy voice reaches
out to me and says, Wait!
I spin around, adrenaline rushing through my body. I cant describe the
feeling you get when you hear another persons voice after a year and a half of
solitude. I sighed with relief and gladness. I have to admit, even I couldnt stay
alone for that long.
Who are you? the voice says.
A survivor. Theycall me P.
P? As in purple?
Yeah.
A short but awkward silence follows. I really dont know how to talk to
anyone, like I said.
A light flickers on. My eyes have to adjust again to it, although its
comforting in a dark basement like this.
I see two figures. The first is probably whoever addressed me, because
hes older than the other one and had a deep voice. He looks about 30 years old,
pale skin, sunglasses. He has a dark shade of hair that goes down to his shoulders
in an ugly mullet. Hes wearing a grey shirt with no sleeves that expose thevarious tattoos on his arms.
The other guy is younger, probably 18 or 19 by the looks of him. He has a
pair of taped up glasses and a Marine-style crew cut and buckteeth. He also
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sports the same style ofshirt but his skinny arms arent wearing any ink. Theyre
both sunburnt and have guns.
I have to say, I wasnt expecting a pair of country rednecks in a place that
sells vintage stuff.
But if theyre talking to me right now, then they must know at leas t a few
tricks to getting food and living, regardless of whether they are in a boutique or
not. So I decide to be friendly.
Where do you come from? I say, although I need to make bonds with
them, not small talk.
Down south in Kentucky, the smallerone says defensively.
What are your names? I ask.
Im Bill and this here is Elias. We dont want no trouble from you tho.
Anybody else down here?
Nope.
I look down at Elias. He looks up nervously like he doesnt trust me but I
feel like Bill does already. I dont know if I can do the same to them, but I hope
we survive.
We all walk out of the store into the sunset.
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Epilogue
Its been two more years since I discovered Bill and Elias. Weve survived by
going from place to place and weve found several more survivors, including a
bioscientist. Together, we are trying to find a cure to the epidemic.
Theres Kate, an ex-Marine, who handles our rationing and armory. Ben is this
kid we found wandering on the highway. Hes actually pretty cool and hes
handy with radios, so every day, he tries to communicate with other survivors.
Also, two survivors came in a few weeks ago. Their names are Mary and Jake.
Jakes the bioscientist. So, weve got seven people who make up this little
community. Were living in an abandoned house, but its on the edge of town
away from harm.
You could say my people skills have improved. Im no longer driving away
people who need help, so thats a start.
The post-apocalyptic world is pretty bad. Theres almost no man-preserved food
left, so we have to constantly build more gardens and water collectors to keep us
going. Theres no real sense of government, either. I mean, its not a problem
with a small group like the one Im in, but if humanity somehow pulls through,
think of all the barbaric things people could do to each other. People would just
be so afraid of each other they would forget how to interact with each other like
in the old world.
Also, need I say that theres no toilet paper?
At the end of the day, Im alive. Thats what matters to me. I know it sounds
selfish, and I do care to some extent about people in this group, but everyone has
to admit that they would be happy knowing they would live tomorrow when they
go to sleep at night. Right?
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26
Nobody ever believed me when I told them that the world was going to end one
day soon. Nobody who I dared tell that survived.
I dont mean to brag, but I was right and you were wrong.
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Cited clip art
Appibelleart.com. N.p., n.d. Web. 22 Mar. 2013.
.
Blogs.citypaper.com. Citypaper.com, n.d. Web. 22 Mar. 2013.
.
Clker.com. Clker.com, n.d. Web. 22 Mar. 2013.
.
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