The Lost Journal Part 2 (A Secret Apocalypse Story) by James Harden Page B

I was. At first. As the last of my blood oozed out on to the supermarket
floor. The same floor that I’d spent countless nights cleaning and buffing and
sweeping. I cleaned this floor so many times. So many hours spent. So many
hours wasted. Now it is stained with my blood. It will never be clean. Never
again. And nothing will change that. Do you see? That is why I am not angry. Because
nothing can change this. Nothing. That man, he was a fool. He will always be a
fool. Nothing will change that."
    The man
reached up to the back of his head and felt his wound. "Before I died," he
continued. "I witnessed the chaos. I saw hell on earth. I had to take charge. People
were being eaten alive outside. They were being shot by soldiers and police
officers. They were being executed. It was my duty."
    "What duty?
What are you talking about?"
    "They, the
soldiers, they were knocking on the door. Screaming. Demanding to be let in.
Ordering us to evacuate. I took my family. We hid in the storeroom. I did what
any loving father would do. We were surrounded. The military had lost control.
It was chaos. Tell me you understand. Tell me. Say it."
    "I
understand."
    "My son was
bitten. He was sick. I saw what they did with the sick people. I knew. What
would you do? Would you give him over? I do not regret what I did. No. Not even
slightly. It was my divine right. The only thing I regret is not telling him enough.
He was my only son. And I did not tell him enough that I loved him. I did not
tell my family enough. And now it is too late. As a child I was told the more
we suffer in this life the more we are rewarded in the next life. Well, I have
suffered."
    Suddenly
Gordon appeared, kneeling over the man. He checked his pulse and shined a torch
into his eyes. "What do you think happened to that boy in the village in the
Hindu Kush?" he asked me. "He was sick. He was wild. What do you think?"
    "Gordon? What
are you doing here?"
    "I’m looking
for answers. The medivac showed up quick after the skirmish, don’t you think?"
    "No. We were
calling them; we were calling for aerial support. Of course they came."
    "They sent
in the big guns for a couple of grunts and a one tiny non-existent village? I
don’t think so. They turned up before they could’ve known. They showed up fast.
Before word spread. You know what that tells me?"
    "What?"
    "It tells me
they knew."
    "Knew what?"
    "They knew
the boy was sick."
    "He was
poisoned."
    "He was sick
in the kind of way that would warrant special attention. Remember the noise he
made? Remember the noise he made when he was banging against the door? Remember
that? Do you? He was banging his head on the door. It was constant. Relentless.
He wasn’t stopping. He had two broken arms. A compound fracture. He didn’t
stop."
    At that
moment I heard a thump. There was a knocking on the door. The sign on the door
read, ‘storeroom’.
    Gordon
looked over at the door and then back at me. "You better tell them."
    "Tell them
what?"
    "Tell them
you’ll be right there. Tell Imran, tell him you’ll set things right."
    I looked at
the door. The handle turned slowly, back and forth. It was locked. I gripped my
rifle. I gripped it tight.
    "You might
wanna do this quietly," Gordon whispered as he put his index finger up to his
cold, blue lips. "Shh. You don’t know how many more of them are in the area."
    He pointed
to a fire axe on the wall. "Use in case of emergency. I guess this situation could
be classed as an emergency, don’t you think?"
    I grabbed
the axe. I told Imran, "I’ll set things right."
    He didn’t
respond.
    I stood in
front of the door and I told his family, "I’ll be right there."
    I opened the
door. And I swung the axe.
    We go hungry for another night.

    I told Jack and Maria that I found nothing. I told them the shelves were
completely bare. The place had been looted. I didn’t tell them about the store
manager and his family. I’d left the fire axe lodged in the skull of the
manager’s wife.
    "We