Durham, North Carolina rots with the rest of the world. It rots with the few that still stagger through it, rattles slipping from sloughing throats. Hollow towers of glass and steel molder and groan. Wind whispers through forgotten streets. Sometimes it escapes the city, carrying low sounds of decay to the squat brown houses built in fractal labyrinths surrounding Durham.

At the suburbs’ edge, one of countless identical houses holds a secret: a bunker hides beneath. It’s a glorified root cellar, nominally fortified, with a too-low ceiling and crumbling asphalt walls, jammed with spindly shelves that hold a lifetime’s worth of food. Claustrophobic cells branch from the main room: a kitchen, a rusting shower that dribbles rust-colored water, a closet crammed with survival supplies. Every room is dimly lit by flickering yellow bulbs.

Blood snakes down from the chipped door at the top of the stairs to the kitchen. Relentless screaming fills the chill, dusty air, the desperate sound someone makes when there isn’t anyone left to hear. The aromatic stench of cooking flesh seeps through sheets that serve as makeshift doors.

An hour passes. A woman shambles out. Her left arm is missing from the elbow down. Blood wells through the bandages wrapped around the stump. She would have been reprimanded for sloppy work if anyone was alive to care. Sweat carves rivulets in the grime covering her face, plastering blond tangles to her forehead. Her breath is slow. Her head floats above her shoulders. She might die alone, but the opiates provide a wonderful buffer between fear and her murky mind. She needs sleep, but even delirious she worries she won’t wake up as herself. She stumbles aimlessly between the rooms, half searching for her cot, half searching for her desk.

She finds the desk first. Like everything else in the bunker, it had started hideously sparse. She’d cluttered it as best she could with the notes she’d managed to grab, a book on viral illnesses, and shitty caricatures doodled on torn pages.

With her left hand, she tries to open the battered spiral bound notebook in the center of the mess. It doesn’t work. Obviously. She snorts with laughter as she collapses into the rickety desk chair, snorts more as it rolls unexpectedly back. If Dr. Andrews were alive, she’d lean across the lab bench, pressing her hand over his and wrapping her fingers around one of those big, familiar palms that she misses so much. She’d whisper that she’d been disarmed, and he’d cackle quietly, and then Higgins would snap at them, saying people were dying every second, that they could fuck around once this shitstorm blew over.

Higgins. She laughs to herself. He couldn’t have been that right. He’s dead now. Idiot.

She opens the notebook. Her head slumps to her chest. Shaking herself awake, she fumbles for a pen. Her glassy eyes trace over the kitten calendar she’d saved from the lab in a blind haze. Something yellow and opaque has dried in drips on the flat-faced cat that stares out at the opposing wall. The days gone by are diligently crossed out. The sixteenth. She nods officiously, turning back to the notebook. It’s the only thing that will humor her stupid jokes now.

9/16: Suject sustained bit on lft wrist. Field amutation preformed. Took ????mg of ???? (find bttle. good shit) stump residuaul lim cautrized w/ stove. bnker smells gros now :( Pain intense. Shud take notes. fuck me tho shouldntve downed hlf botte plls need to slep. Subect needs lie down on hir cot. think there all ded. shod be botherd but sleepy. will cry lter, aftr slee

She slumps over, medication and blood loss and shock proving too potent.

The next morning is laborious and painful, and her neck and her stump are heinously sore. She goes about her to-do list slowly: eat cold beans, refresh bandages, try to scrub away the floor blood, put a peridot ring on a chain, hold it a moment too long, realize she’s about to cry, sort the cans of food again, this time by color. When she runs out of chores, she takes the radio that lured her from the bunker and the still-bloody axe she’d chopped her arm off with and, as forcefully as she can using one hand, brings the blunt side down again and again until it’s scrap metal.

Sweating and winded, she limps to the desk.

9/17: I shouldn’t have left. I can’t stop thinking about the caravan. One broadcast, a minute long, and it’s probably gonna ruin my week. If I wasn’t so numb, it would ruin my month. I’m just out of tears at this point. Losing the city, losing the lab didn’t affect me like it should’ve. Felix is God knows how many people gone, and I laugh when I think about Dr Higgins, shambling around and being defensive about his mismatched socks, even in undeath.

All I got for my noble intentions was bit. My hand’s in the fridge. I pulled his the ring off it and wrapped it in tin foil. It almost just looks like an overlong burrito. I didn’t know what else to do with it. After all the shit we’ve been through, it feels wrong to just toss it.

I could almost be one of them, on the other side of the glass. I could almost pretend I was just taking notes on someone past the brink. I could write subject’s left arm hurts to move, hurts to think about. Subject’s left side aches. Subject’s fingers tingle. Subject is shocked when she reaches for can of beans and her hand doesn’t make contact. Limited medical supplies, so dressings can’t be refreshed with optimal frequency and I’ll have to use a lower antibiotic dose than is ideal. Just hope I caught it in time.

She leans back and stares at the ceiling. Tears well in her eyes. Maybe she should have died a month ago with everyone else. 

She shouldn’t have smashed the radio. Without sound, she’s stuck with herself.

9/18: It’s not useful to think about dead kids, but it’s hard to think about anything else. I’d love to leave this stupid bunker, to even visit the house above, but I can’t leave. If Thursday taught me anything, it was that. Subject is starting to wonder if the fear pain will ever stop. Subject’s stump residual limb tingles, like sparks popping through the pain and the opiates. Subject hopes that’s normal.

Her face is no longer drawn. Her visible skin glows pink. She smiles unstoppably. Words spurt from her brain, her hand barely keeping up as she scribbles excitedly.

9/19: I was sitting by the garage door, thinking about venturing out a little to find books or yarn or anything because I can only read the label of low sodium chicken soup (now with extra chicken!) so many times before I lose my mind and then I heard a knock. At first I was losing my shit, like oh god they’ve figured out how to emulate human mannerisms, it’s all over. I grabbed the axe and I swung open the door ready for violence and standing in front of me scared half to death was a little girl. 

She’s barely older than Sarah would Her name is Nat. She’s skin and bones, but I’ll change that. Those were her people, from the broadcast earlier. She doesn’t want to talk about what happened. She said she hid and followed me from the building, she would’ve come to “my house” sooner, but she saw me chopping off my arm and I might be a little crazy but she’d been getting hungry and she decided she would trust me. She said she could run faster than a crazy lady anyways because she was fast and it was nice to worry about a person instead of

Then she stopped and her eyes got glassy. It sucks this is how things are.

Now she’s wrapped in flannel and conked out, stuffed with low sodium chicken soup, hopefully dreaming about better times.

Subject’s temperature is 101 degrees. Hands is clammy. Beginning a course of cefazolin for infection. 500 mg injection every 8 hours. Hoping for staph. If that kills me, I stay dead.

Even in a journal, even full of excitement, she can’t escape death. She rubs an eye with her remaining hand.

Her narrow face is scrubbed clean. She’d almost forgotten she has freckles. She can’t stop grinning like an idiot.

9/20: I have someone to talk to. Kind of crazy, in retrospect, that I was alone here as long as I was. Having someone around makes me notice things through her eyes. Suddenly I’m self conscious of matted hair I haven’t brushed in a month, the filthy lab coat I cling to like a security blanket, the barrenness of the walls.

She’s quiet, but with encouragement she’ll talk about everything. When she gets going about things she likes, her big brown eyes light up and I think of

She talks about this toad she had, a real fat one that visited her so many times she’d named him Bruce and he kept coming so eventually she took the fish tank from when they had fish and looked up all the things a toad would need and

Anyways very long story short they took Bruce in and he somehow got even fatter and then

I think the problem with trying to talk about anything is that any story eventually runs into the present. And the whole point of talking is to not think about the present.

She says maybe we can go out and look for toads. I told her it was dangerous. Her little face fell. I felt like a monster. She already knows it’s dangerous. I told her once everything’s normal I’ll take her hunting for the fattest toad this side of the Mississippi, getting her chirpy giggle going again.

Then she asked me when things would be back to normal. I told her that people were working on it, in London and Stockholm (which have to still be standing, they’re not like Durham, they’re big), regaled her with stories about grouchy head researchers and charming chemists that showed her constell and little girls that she’d have been frien I’d like to tell her about more than I do, but I’ll die if I think about some things too long.

Subject’s residual limb itches. Subject’s shoulder burns. Subject experiences hunger. Consumed cans of beef stew and stomach still growled. Increased metabolism due to infection? Fever continues. Impatient for cefazolin results.

When she had a left hand, she’d play with the ring. She reaches for it now, a piece of better times. The hand is gone, but the ring is on a chain around her neck, so her remaining hand wanders there and she rolls it in her fingers. She wishes there were windows here. She misses the stars. She misses the infinite sky.

Her hair is short and scrubby now, cut close to the scalp, but what’s left shines gold in the incandescent flicker. She’s paler than she was. She tries to ignore it, but she knows what sickness looks like. She’s never seen the virus progress this slowly, but then, none of the subjects before had chopped off the point of infection. She’s such a pioneer. She laughs in spite of herself, in spite of what she knows she’s becoming.

9/22: Life is more tolerable than I thought it could be. My hair was too knotted, so I chopped it off. Nat teases me, calls me dad. She shadows me around while I do maintenance. She’s so bright. I’ve never been blue-collarly inclined, so she read me the manual for the generator while I struggled to change spark plugs, occasionally giving me a hand because three are better than one.

But there were concerning moments. I’d find myself staring, thinking about meat. It’s been so long since I had fresh meat. I’ve been living off canned and dehydrated shit so long, my mouth waters at the thought of something fresh. Anything fresh.

Subject’s whole chest burns. Opioids don’t help. Fever’s worse. I Subject tries to eat, stomach cramps. Could be antibiotics. Subject has thoughts of consuming living flesh. Probably not antibiotics. I’m beginning to worry I didn’t catch it in time.

Every thought comes back to that. She wonders how bad it’ll get.

9/26: I tried to eat my arm. Pulled it from the fridge, cut some away from near the elbow, farthest from the bite. I fried it at night. It’s disconcerting to see your own fat hissing and popping in your grease like it was normal meat in normal grease. The smell was sweeter than I remember. I wanted to see if I could stomach it more than all the processed shit we’ve got. Massive mistake. After I was done dry heaving over the toilet, I thought about trying it uncooked, but I can’t look at it without retching now.

It’s been a week since I ate anything. Nat’s noticed. She tries to hide it, but during mealtimes, her eyes linger too long on me. To be fair, mine sometimes linger too long on her. We distract ourselves with conversation, but during the silent in-between moments I hear my stomach growling. I thought cutting off my hand could stop it. I think I just slowed it down. I know I’m most dangerous now, while all I can think of is meat and the softness of human fat while blood still pumps through the flesh and how tender a child’s I need to get out of here. I know it’s dangerous but if I stay then

She slams the notebook shut. It’s not a conclusion she wants to reach.

Blood is caked around the chapped lips she gnaws and picks at. She does not notice.

9/28: Spent the day raiding the neighborhood, getting books. Magic Tree House, Warrior Cats. What I read when I was a kid, what I’d read to I brought suitcases of them back, brought back stuffed animals and soft blankets and sidewalk chalk for the walls. I look for toads, but I think they’re all asleep this time of year. I don’t know what she wants, but I ravage so many abandoned rooms. Every one of them housed a Nat. God only knows where they are now. I fight not to look at the dusty frames on the walls, at the ghosts watching me raid their homes.

My whole torso hurts. It aches and rolls and I can only think about meat fresh tender meat that gets fuller everyday

I try to eat and just become violently sick, the thought of anything cold and dead makes my stomach contract, renews the heaving even though there’s nothing but blood and bile left. My hands won’t stop shaking, but I can’t take in any electrolytes, I can’t eat anything.

Subject is succumbing to the virus. Subject is acutely aware she won’t be herself for much longer. And Nat knows. She’s just too bright.

The kitten calendar lies on the floor, forsaken. She doesn’t know what day it is. She doesn’t know what her temperature is, either, and she’s stopped the cefazolin because she’s worse-than-dying anyways, and nothing matters except the growling in her stomach. Her eyes are clouding. They do not see the words she scribbles. 

subject is frightened subject saw mirror and face was hollow subject looks dead already if doesn’t eat soon will die subjects body only alive with fire 

eyes follow Nat as makes her way around bunker i peer through shelves watch her reading on cot lying on burgeoning potbelly waving calves feet slowly budding with fat in the air as plumpening fingers flip through taken to hiding from me know i cant stop it virus marches to simple course programmed into it cold machine alive only through technicalities living only long as has something that dreams to cling to cant stop shaking solution so close everything hurts so much the solution so small IM BURNING ALIVE solution so easy to take 

Her body heaves in muted sobs. The grime has returned, worms into every corner of her face with a vengeful air. The tears and snot running down her face cannot cut through it, so they run over instead, becoming opaque in their filth as they dribble down. Her wide eyes stand out against the mess, the wet scleras overflowing, catching artificial and inconstant light as they roll about in desperate search for—

The notebook. She wrenches it open. Blood from the unkempt stump splatters over the page. The pen slips around in sweat drenched fingers as she desperately scrawls.

body not mine mind not mine went to sleep the only escape have left felt strange sure but never feel normal anymore feel electric in worst way like nervous system asleep but thought i could sleep dreamed about wandering searching for food meat mouth so wet been bone dry for so long but was watering i was slobbering so close finally not feeling empty and theniwokeupandiwasstandingover Nat 

The lights of the bunker are set to a timer, so that, even windowless, there’s some semblance of normalcy. Nat wakes to the bulb above her flickering on. She sleeps in the shower now. It’s the only room that locks, the only room where she doesn’t feel eyes on her. She waits for the doctor to knock, to talk in a voice so ragged that it’s barely understandable, to ask her if she’s hungry, drawing out the words a bit too much. But Nat doesn’t hear anything moving about the bunker for a very long time.

So, she unclasps the lock and cracks open the door, peering at shelves, watching for movement. She’s been here before, in a nightmare. She’s ready to run again.

“Hello?” The only reply to her tremulous call is an echo.

She tip toes out. There’s no one there. She’s ready to run again.

She finds the desk, the kitten calendar, the funny little drawings of herself and of people she’s never seen before. She finds the ragged journal, opened to a page of barely legible scribbles. Atop the paper, on a chain, lies a ring. 

Still listening for monsters, Nat traces her fingers over the words.

I’m leaving. I need to leave, because the alternative is unthinkable. I’m going to run as far from here as I can, in my state, and if I think I can make my way back to this place when my legs give out beneath me then I’ll

But she’ll make it. She has to. Someone needs to be left to look for fat toads once spring comes and the world is whole again.

I’m just sorry you’ll be doing it alone.