The Surviving Son (Valkyrie Book 2) (8 page)

The others tightened their packs and gear and one by one moved
down the road, back towards Stratton. Callahan stayed behind, eyes
locked on mine with a vaunting smile across his shaggy face. I was
overburdened with both guilt and ferocity, wishing to lash out at the
man before me like a caged animal. Yet, the repercussions of such
action was all that held me back, and instead I petitioned for some
reasoning of this man.
“I request a favor of you.” I stuttered.
“That is?”
“The people of Rangeley are mostly children.” I added. “Try and
maintain some form of decency.”
With a hoarse cackle he turned and followed his men, not once
looking back at me. As their silhouettes began to fade I was barely
able to make out one of them bending down and placing my pistol
upon the ground. He stood and stared back at me for a moment,
raising his hand and stiff middle finger, before disappearing around
the bend with the others, and with haste, I scurried down the road.
Unsurprised but still disappointed, I found the thirty-eight special
upon the pavement, loaded with but one round. Instead of
protection, the cold-hearted bastard left me an ill-fated exit, and my
fury urged me to run him down with it. Instead, I stuffed the weapon
in my coat, secured my pack and rejoined Steph to continue on. As
we shuffled along, I could not help but stew over the interaction, and
Steph’s haste.
“You’ve condemned those children.” I finally said.
“Evolutionary Cleansing.” She added. “Both sides will lose life.
And if we hurry, and get back to Maribel, you can order a rescue
mission.” She said, the pain of her actions clearly resonating from
within her voice.

My voice was carried out across the gloomy green meadow, and
before long it echoed back to me, even though the words came at a
low mumble. Steph looked over at me for a second before her eyes
fell back upon the dismal scene that lay before us. The Dead River
lapped the edges of this antiquated pasture, its banks were riddle
with bodies, everything from sun-bleached skeletons to barley cold
cadavers. But, the grassland itself was much bleaker than what we
had found down at the river’s edge.

The acreage had been claimed, long ago, as a refugee campsite.
Towards the north end, just before an ancient rock-wall that had
been more recently built-up and reinforced was a garrisoned
perimeter. Trucks, vans, and even rusty old recreational vehicles
formed a large, and impenetrable barricade with a quaint little
campsite at its center, along with a still smoldering fire pit. A long
clothes-line remained strung between two vans, graced with an
assortment of torn - blood-stained - clothes and under garments
swaying peacefully in the morning breeze.

Steam still rose from the mass of death within, wisps dancing
over the cold morning air, and placing the slaughter within the last
hour. We had just missed it. However, it would seem that this was
not the first massacre upon this land, as the scrolls of corpses read a
long and torrid past of predation and deceit. What would guise as a
place of serene sanctity, has many times become a grave for the lost
and the weak.

“Let’s look for supplies first.” I sugge
sted, and was met with a
glare of disapproval, but still she followed my lead.
Unlike The Survivor, the act of rummaging through the pockets
of the dead seemed barbaric and callous, like desecrating a saint’s
tomb. My faltering sense of morality hanging on by a thread. So, out
of respect, I focused on suitcases, backpacks, and vehicles in search
of anything that could ease our mission. Steph on the other hand,
followed behind, but searched nothing. I believe she is still in mild
shock after Eeamon’s death and now at the sight of all the senseless
death around us, a wickedness she has little experience in.
After a few minutes of coming up empty handed I made one last
effort and popped open the lower storage compartment of an RV. A
hard stone smile cracked my face. Not out of satisfaction in my find,
but in amusement at the versatility of true survivors. What should
have been a cramped alcove for suitcases and non-perishables, had
been modified and extended all the way to the adjacent side of the
vehicle. Altogether it could easily fit 4 adults laying down, and the
rations of bottled water, food, along with make-shift air vents and
interior locks would allow a familyto hide for days if needed. God’s
will may be a bitch, but the will of man should never be
underestimated.
Steph did not hesitate to reach in and snatch the bottles of water,
stuffing them in her own pack as she also filled her pockets with foil
sealed toaster-pastries. Her depressive demeanor had lightened
momentarily, the sweet snacks putting a smirk of happiness across
her face, as well as my own. After clearing out the compartment she
turned to walk away in satisfaction, only to immediately halt with a
paled face of fear.
Whipping around I found a young woman several yards away and
slowly closing in. Mid-twenties, gorgeous golden blonde hair and
one bright blue eye. The other, recently chewed away along with the
whole right side of her face, and her neck was masticated like ground
beef. She had turned mere minutes ago, which meant there were
others nearby, and this plain of the passing was still brooding in
peril.
Never before had I reacted without thought, which is why I
always preferred hardened veterans by my side, but my past pitfalls
fell aside to simple instinct. My hand fished out the small pocket
knife from my coat on its own accord, and with one swift motion I
stepped forward, swooping my hand around the Freshy’s head and
sliding the blade up behind the base of her skull. The entire
maneuver lasted a second and surprisingly successful. I’d seen
Mason do this many times, but had never thought that I would have
it in me.
The light in the young woman’s eye was extinguished instantly,
and gently I guided her dainty remains to the ground. I’d like to
believe I did it out of compassion, but that was not the case, because
in these crazy times a trivial thump upon the earth can become a
screaming banshee-filled pit of hell. And as ironic as it sounds, the
racket of big-city commerce and progress that we use to dread,
would be more than whimsical against the deafening roar of the
lower-world.
With a deep sigh, I looked back, myeyes falling between Steph’s
legs then through the under-carriages of the fortified burial-ground.
Within the misty haze was the undeniable shambling of the waking
dead. Steph jumped in fear as they smashed their hands against the
sides of the automobiles, and I lashed out, pulling her fast to the
ground and covering her mouth. They hadn’t noticed us yet, and I
aimed to keep it that way.
“HELP ME!”
The shrill of fright split the air like a knife, and just across the
river my eyes caught sight of a lone woman, much older than the life
I had just ended and quite possible her mother. Frantically she
scurried through the thick alders, stumbling and tripping in complete
terror. Tangled gray hair, slightly overweight, and clothed in only a
dirty old bra and underpants, it was obvious that she had been rudely
awoken this morning and now savagely pursued. And although
some of the fresher corpses began to rustle and rise from the
woman’s shrieks, it was not them that she feared.
Three men followed not far behind her, and by their dingy attire
plus the domineering and sadistic chortles that echoed about, it was
clear these were simpleminded and lawless rednecks. As the dead
around us rose and followed the racket, I held Steph down, my hands
clamped tight over her mouth, and I watched the distraction ensue,
all the while praying that the poor woman’s peril was a cruel yet
necessary sacrifice. And as I stared upon the uprising my heart sank
beyond compassion when she tripped upon and tangle of roots and
tumbled to the forest floor.
The scrawny hillbilly in the lead reached her just as she rolled
onto her back and held up her hands in defeat. The other two strolled
up soon after, snickering at the sight of their desperate prey. Her
whimpers wafted over the river just as the Dead stepped into its
sandy shore, but none of the imbeciles paid much attention to them.
They had one-track minds, inbred and corrupted, with little instinct
for self-preservation, only social predation.
“We have to do something…” Steph whispered as she pulled my
hand from her lips.
“Wha…”
“NO, PLEASE, ILL DO ANYTHING!” The woman’s pleas
broke my response.
“We don’t need your cooperation, bitch!” The man above her
snarled.
With a quick spat, he raised his gun towards her head and pulled
the trigger without a moment of second-thought, her head lurched
back upon the earth with a quick bounce, and abruptly she became
still. With a guiltless chuckle he nudged her lifeless body with his
foot before looking towards his friends for approval. Once again I
held Steph’s mouth as the thunderous blast faded over the
mountains, and the dead drifted from a curious approach to a
ravenous assault. The men immediately took notice, as two of them
snatched up an opposing leg and dragged the body into the forest.
The ringleader looked back at the approaching herd as they
sloshed up out of the river and fought through a tangled mass of
alders. With a scoff, he slowly turned to join the others, but not
before his eyes drifted across the river and caught my own. His
retreat came to an instant pause as we stared each other down, but
the advancing army soon lit a fire under his feet. With a quick salute,
the man smiled, then dashed off after his friends. As the horde
pursued I pulled Steph back to her feet and we scurried back towards
the roadway, never once looking back.
I urged Steph to pick up the pace, to cover us much ground as
possible before nightfall, but her dismay only slowed our retreat.
The look in that man’s eyes was that of sinister musing, and
possessing no moral fiber, it is obvious he would soon be on the hunt
again. And I’d rather we not be his next prey. I must admit, it would
appear that my calculations of the human population in this region
was drastically underestimated.

The sun never rose the following morning, instead mother-nature
blanketed the sky in dark clouds and torrential rain battered the thin
and dank canvas which barely covered our heads. With no fire to
keep warm, we huddled together beneath a tall hemlock, seeking
what little protection we could from its ancient canopy. It was just
another dreary day in a series of dreary days since the dawn of The
Fall.

Steph and I have not spoken since the incident the day before,
neither have our eyes connected, as hers remain lowered and distant,
and my own gaze out into an unrecognizable world. We were on a
roller coaster of emotions, both of us silently debating in our heads
the moral implications of her actions the day of Eeamon’s death,
along with the ruthless massacre back at the refugee camp. Coming
to terms with the reality of our own purpose and survival. We were
at the will of nature, nearly weaponless, defenseless, but the mission
must go on, that is our only purpose. The needs of the many, shall
condemn the few.

We passed a small boarded up cabin yesterday, and although it
would have been a more suitable place to hold up, it was the dreadful
sounds of shuffling that deterred our stay. But, it was a monument,
or as some would see a tomb, to the varying impressions this world
bestows on each of us. In a dark red paint, or quite possibly in blood,
scrawled out across the cabin’s outer-walls were the words of just
another Nameless Victim.

And yet, if the soulless fiend behind those walls and covered
windows was the one who wrote this message, he fell to both.
Valkyrie enslaved his body, as she extinguished his persona. In
man’s final moments, when death caresses his face, he resorts to
brandished courage and fearful threats. But maybe this message was
not from the resident within, and the true poet continues to wander
this foreign landscape without cause, yet with infinite sorrow and
uncontrollable hate.

His words incite a bit of optimism in my own mind, the drive I
need to continue this mission, and believe that there is still an end to
all of this. And as the day passes by, and the rain clouds retreat to
the waning of the moon, I reach out and embraced the novice young
women beside me, holding her tight, as we fought our fears and
prayed for sleep. We fought off the thoughts of the events in days
past, and thought not of the obstacles that awaited off in the
darkness, waiting to send us aimlessly before them. We thought
only of sleep, and a peaceful dawn.

Following the old highway north I can picture how this area
looked prior to The Fall. Vast sceneries of endless forests, rivers and
mountains, intersecting with all of man’s achievements. A
metropolis of both nature and industry which once coexisted in an
elegant yet fragile balance. Years later, nature is taking back its
prestige, re-rooting and reconquering all that was raped away by
man. And aside from the scattered pieces of pavement and the
sagging power lines, the area is returning to how the ancient
Abenaki’s once saw it.

Still determined to complete the mission, I fight back to fears of
failure, nor do I allow myself to be discourage by how much more
we will need to overcome. The pack which strains my back is all
that drives me, its contents, although minimal, are all I have to
reclaim our world. So I hold tightly to delicate optimism, for even if
a cure is found, getting back to the GFS and supplying it to the world
will be yet another dreadful undertaking.

By midday we had walked several miles, and for a moment I was
concerned that we had missed our destination, and soon the fear of
backtracking set in. But as the sun sailed over the sky, and the
lifeless wind-turbines that dot these mountain came into view, my
eyes fell upon a beacon of hope. A monument described once within
the chicken-scratch of one courageous survivor, it was a symbol of
triumph over the evil that can be man.

A mid twentieth century half-ton truck, stranded in time below a
densely covered mountain and aside the slow winding flow of the
Dead River. Its hood left open as if the mechanic was on an extended
lunch break, but the myriad of weathered bullet shells was the
confirmation I needed to bring a smile to my face. It was
undoubtedly Big Paul’s rust bucket, a defeated adversary of the
survivor. We had reached our destination, and my stomach churned
with anticipation.

The sight of this marker brought thoughts of pessimism to run
rampant in my mind. For all we knew, somewhere up on that
mountain, we would only find and empty dwelling riddled with the
signs of chaos and destruction. The Nameless Survivor may have
chosen a different area to call home, or quite possibly fell before
reaching his home. The only assumption I could make is that his
own pride for this land was enough to push for his return.

Still, as I stared into the dense forest that rose above the old road,
and I found myself hesitant on entering the thickets. Apprehensive,
anxious, and fearful. I was like a long lost orphan about to meet his
birth mother for the very first time. Many thoughts raced through
my mind, like, what would I say to him? Would I be welcomed or
shot dead? Would I only find emptiness on the mountain top above?

“Why did we stop?” Steph asked, and I turned from my gaze and
smiled.
“This is it.”
“We made it?”
“Yes,” I paused to brush her hair back away from her face,

With a deep breath, we plunged together into the underbrush and
one step at a time we made our way up the mountain. How far I
would need to travel was unclear, and I just prayed that I would
reach the old tote road spoken of in his journal, the only direct path
to his front yard. But, as I pushed my burning muscles further up,
there was no sign of it, or so I thought.

I knew we were on the right track, off in the distance I could hear
the muddled trickle of a brook, and if memory serves me correctly
then it should pass right by his cabin. And then, like coming out of
an exhaustive morning haze, the road I had been searching for
presented itself. We had been following alongside it all along,
obscured by the regrowth of trees and brush, only visible by the
ancient tire ruts that were nearly buried in dead vegetation. This was
it, we were close, and my heart pounded with excitement.

Before long we came to a barely noticeable fork in the road, and
once again I was faced with a clueless question. Pulling the
survivors journal from my back I thumbed through the pages,
searching for the answer of which path to take. The effort, however,
was in vain. I had his journals almost memorized, and I knew there
was no mention of this divide.

“What now?” Steph asked.
“Now we take a guess.”
“Guess? We chose wrong and we could walk into a horde!” She

protested.
“Either path could present its own obstacles, what choice do we
have?”
The path to the right, however, was obviously the one least
traveled, the ruts that had guided us thus far were no longer visible
in that direction. The only sign that it was once a road were the
younger trees beneath the ancient ones to either side. On the other
hand, the path to the left was much more visible, yet darkly shrouded
by a thick canopy. It resembled a tunnel into the pits of hell,
foreboding and almost free of regrowth. It was the most logical of
choices, but its presence seemed to force me away.
“This way.” I said, pointing to the clear choice.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“Nope.”
Without waiting for a response, I took the first step into the
shadowy path, Steph hesitantly following behind. We trekked on,
ignoring our aching legs, and within an hour or so I began to see
signs that most would have missed. Moss covered bones, animal or
man, I did not take the time to check. Then, barbed-wire fencing,
stretching between small clumps of tree to either side of the road
with narrow gaps here and there. It was no old pasture, but a barrier
for the Infected. And soon, even more promising and yet horrific
warnings were exposed.
Human carcasses, whole bodies mounted on stakes, much like we
saw back in Rangeley, but more commonly it was just the heads
resting ghastly upon pikes. The road and forest was scattered with
them, not just as camouflage for the Infected but as a warning to
those who may try to lay claim to this land. A warning to turn away,
before it is too late. A warning I was all too eager to abide, but I
buried my misgivings and force my legs to move.
Directly in the middle of our path was one of the head adorned
pikes, the hair and flesh had mostly fallen away, and the blackened
scar tissues was all that identified this being as the Infected. Sadly,
though, it had not been dispatch. Its mouth shuttered with hunger at
the sight of me, and its eyes nothing more than dense fog shifting
from left to right. It can take a couple of months for the Infected to
starve to death, so although ghastly, this was the sign I was looking
for, of a recent human presence. I just hoped it was the work of the
survivor, and not squatting raiders.
Further up the road a distinct smell entered my nose, and it was
not the stench of rotting flesh, but instead the potent and oaky scent
of a burning fireplace. Someone was ahead, and my pace quickened
as I ignored the pops and aches within my knees, and Steph
desperately tried to keep up. Moments later I could see the smoke
billowing throughout the trees, and then the peak of a cedar-shingled
roof. I was here, I had made it, but before my excitement exploded,
everything fell painfully black.
* * * * *

My head pounded in agony as my eyes struggled to open, and a
thick fluid caked the hair in the back of my head like half-set glue. I
reached back and touched it, bringing my hand before my eyes and
straining to get a look at the dark blood that coated my fingertips. I
was still in a haze, not completely sure of where I was or what had
happened. But within minutes my mind began to clear, and the
wooden cage that imprisoned me came into reality.

As I gazed about this fabled area, familiar in many ways, but
foreign in so many others. It is not the refuge I had imagined from
the survivors description, in fact it appears that the place has fallen
apart over the years. Aside from the rotted out bullet holes strewed
across the outer walls, the cabin itself was in a deep state of neglect.
The sagging and tilted supports beneath the hut seemed ready to give
way which would lead to the sudden demolition of this man’s home.

The yard itself was a disaster, trash littered the area like a
beggar’s home under a bridge, along with the remains of an
assortment of bones. Deer carcasses, squirrel pelts, and many other
critters, thrown out for nature to feast. Surprisingly though there was
some life strutting about, chickens roamed freely, and behind the
cabin lay a row of rabbit hutches along with a small penned in dairy
goat.

The vegetable garden he proudly spoke of many times in his
pages was nowhere to be seen, as if he had given up on his
survivalist dream and let the land reclaim itself. None of this made
any sense, it would appear that he had never returned, and what lay
before me is nothing more than the claimed refuge of someone else.
Who, was the question, and I dreaded the answer.

Although the area seemed empty of human life, and Steph was
nowhere to be found, it was obvious that I was not alone. Smoke
still billowed from the chimney and a thunderous racket resonated
from within the cabin itself. I feared that my entrapment may have
more sinister purpose than just containment, and the idea of being
held as cattle played heavily on my nerves. Carefully I studied my
prison, looking for a weakness, examining the cedar poles that
surrounded me like a shark-cage. But, before I could even attempt
an escape, the cabin door flung open with a loud bang.

Who exited the domicile surprised me and put all my premature
assumptions to rest. It was not a raider nor a troll, and it was not the
survivor himself, but instead, a young boy. Adorn in dingy and
tattered animal pelts and stalking across the yard like a wild
chimpanzee or gorilla, mumbling and grunting along the way. So
human, and yet so beastly. He paid me no attention at first, instead
he sauntered over to one of the many deer carcasses and with ease
snapped away one of its ribs. He had an animalistic hunger as he
crouched down and began to tear away putrid meat and fat from the
bone with his teeth, swallowing with a satisfying gulp.

The boy looked out into the forest, his back facing me, as if
unable to pinpoint the voice that called to him. After a few moments
he sunk his teeth back into the maggotyflesh, feastingas if he hadn’t
eaten in weeks. But, it was obvious that he had, he was not frail from
starvation, but yet a healthy and robust young boy. Very young, I
might add, just the right age to be the offspring of Mia and the
Survivor. With that realization, my concern turned to ecstatic pride.

The boy swung around, furiously chucking the rib bone at me
which bounced of my cage with a loud clatter before he ferociously
stormed towards me with a menacing growl. It was then, when we
were finally face to face, that I saw the reason for his odd behavior.
His eyes, not the bright green of his mothers, or any other natural
human color. Instead they were a dull gray, and the veins that
surrounded them an unnaturally dark purple… The boy seemed
almost infected, a prowler – no. This was unlike anything I’d seen
before. His skin was still pink and he displayed no signs of decay,
as well as his anger being more of a human emotion rather than viral
instinct. But, he still possessed Valkyrie’s strength as he reached
through the bars, snatching a clump of my fading hair and slamming
my face into the cage door.

“At yo ay?” He said
fiercely, staring into my eyes. “Ow yo now,
Mia?”
My heart pounded rigorously, scared and intrigued that he could
speak. Another Valkyrie mystery for me to uncover. Although the
language was so foreign, it was obvious that he understood me, or
at the very least understood his own mother’s name. I was baffled,
it was obvious that the infection teemed in his blood, but it did not
control him, he was of his own mind. If immune, he would not show
any sign, so how?
“Yes, Mia.” I stuttered. But this only fueled his anger as he
released my hair and kicked the cage.
“Yo o pek fo Mama!” He screeched as he snatched up random
objects; sticks, bones, and rocks to hurl towards me in contempt.
I huddled back within my confines, my arms covering my head
from the feral boy’s barrage. His tantrum went on for a few minutes
before he angrily stormed back into the cabin, muttering furiously
in his own cryptic language. Before long, he came back out, carrying
a large hand crafted blade, and with that I assumed my mission was
finally at an end.
“WAIT!” Steph’s voice rung out as she exited the leaning
outhouse, desperately trying to pull up her pants. “Don’t you hurt
him!” She scorned.
“Eh no bong ere!” The boy cried.
But he did not approach me, instead he approached the hutches
and snagged a rabbit by the ears before carrying it off into the forest
as it struggled to free itself. Before long he faded behind the cover
of foliage, but the heart-piercing shrieks of the pained creature
echoed throughout the trees. I was still in awe by the encounter,
unsure of what to make of it, but unwilling to make any more
assumptions.
“He’s a very testy child.” Steph said as she approached my
prison.
“Get me out of here.” I said.
“I wouldn’t suggest that, sir.” She said with a smile. “He really
does not like you, and escaping would surely piss him off.”
“Steph!”
My brave assistant chuckled for a few seconds before untying the
crude knot that held the cage shut. Eager to get out, I still did not
miss the fact that the girl was laughing, a sight I have not seen in
days. Something must have happened when I was unconscious,
something that shattered that depressive shell she had been stuck in,
something has enlightened her.
“He’s infected, you know.” She said as I stepped out.
“I noticed.”
“He thinks you are the devil.”
“You understand him?” I asked.
“No, but the way dragged you into the cage by your feet, spat on
you, and kept repeating Devil over and over was a sure sign.”
“So he speaks some English.”
“I think it’s all English. Slang or something.”
“Did you catch his name?”
“No, not yet.” She said. “Hewouldn’t even let me into the cabin.”
“Why did he not cage you as well?” I asked, and she smirked.
“I kind of freaked out. Panicked after he jumped out of the trees.
I thought I had grabbed your gun, and pointed it at him.”
“And?” I asked.
“It was one of those Power-Bars Garrison gave us. He really
seemed to like it. And I believe he has a crush on me now.”
“Good, you’re officially a diplomat. I am relying on you making
sure that he does not kill me.”
“I’ll try.” She said with a chuckle, but I didn’t find the humor.
Scouring the forest I searched for signs of his return as I breathed
deeply to calm my nerves. Where he was going with the rabbit was
unclear, and although curious, I was not stupid enough to follow.
When I was confident he was not returning, we made way for the
cabin to recover my pack, and hopefully my gun. What I found
inside was even more ghastly than I would have ever assumed.
The one room fortress was adorned with more carcasses and
pelts, and reeked of the plague. As with the yard, the floors were
littered with random trash and bones. But within all of those horrors
were the clues of a shattered past, evidence of the survivors life
before he fled, as well as clues of his return. I hoped the young boy
was on his way to find his father, to bring him back and show off
his prisoner.
My eyes shifted down to my feet which stood upon a large dark
brown stain, dried blood, and slowly I knelt down and traced a finger
around a single bullet hole in the floor board. Tugger’s demise, left
in place as a memorial to a dear friend. And for a moment, I was
choked up. Those pages that I’ve read over and over again werenow
more real than ever. It was like walking the grounds of Gettysburg,
or sitting in the balcony of Ford’s Theatre, history within arm’s
reach.
Then my eyes turned towards the single bed in the corner with
that same moose blanket spoken of in his journal, now a mass of
mangy and worn skin. But my attention quickly fell upon the shrine
at the foot of the bed. A small table, cluttered with candles, and other
odds and ends. Slowly I walked over to get a better look, and my
heart sank. Among the assortment of trinkets there were few things
that were recognizable to me. A lock of blonde hair, Mia’s, lay at
rest beneath a picture of another young blonde. Although the photo
was not of the child’s late mother, the similarities were uncanny. I
assume it was procured from some abandoned home so that the
young boy would have an idea of who his mother was. Also resting
in front of the picture was a blood stained knife, obviously the same
blade that ended that sweet girl’s life.
Intrigued, I did not touch anything upon that shrine, for I knew if
caught, my demise would surely follow. So quickly I turned to
gather up my things, which I found to be strewn about the place with
my empty pack laying upon the floor. I feared my instruments were
damaged from the boy’s unknowing curiosity, however everything
appeared to be intact. Even the portable electron microscope and
thermo-cycler were unharmed. Although most of my equipment is
unsuitable for such working environment, they were adapted before
my departure in hopes that a makeshift lab could be constructed.
“Look at this.” Steph said, pointing at the window.
Upon the sill, a handmade book, bound in fur, and its pages made
of tanned animal skin. Quickly I opened the cover and thumbed
through it, surprised at what she had discovered. It was another
journal with an all too familiar handwriting, and the first page
opening with an amazingly significant title. We were losing the
sunlight, so quickly we stepped outside and I began to read that first
entry out loud.