Wicked Series (Short Story): The Journal of Emma Wilson

by Davis, John Macallen

  The Journal of Emma Wilson

  A Wicked Zombie Story

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical people, events or places are used fictitiously. Any other names, places, events or characters are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual places, events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 John Michael Davis

  Editing by: Daniél Lecoq

  All rights reserved, including the right to copy this book or portions of this book in any form. For more information, please email johnmdavisbooks@gmail.com.

  First edition September 2017

  If you are an author in search of quality professional editing, please email galaxycurse@gmail.com and should you encounter any errors during this reading experience, feel free to email us so that we may correct them and improve this work.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Also by John Macallen Davis:

  Gunship Series

  Gunship Kindle - Nook

  Glimmeria Kindle - Nook

  Reflections Kindle - Nook

  Gears and Spears Kindle - Nook

  Legendary Kindle - Nook

  Space Rebels Kindle - Nook

  Bone Harvest Kindle - Nook

  Ghost Planet Kindle - Nook

  Skyfall Kindle - Nook

  Fleet Series

  The Fleet Kindle - Nook

  The Blood War Kindle - Nook

  Chaotic Worlds Kindle - Nook

  The Afterworlds Kindle - Nook

  The Run Kindle - Nook

  The Great War Kindle - Nook

  Vampire Hunters Kindle - Nook

  Return of the Fear Kindle - Nook

  The Colony Kindle - Nook

  Graveyard Kindle - Nook

  Wicked Series

  Wicked on Kindle – Nook – Paperback

  The Journal of Emma Wilson - Kindle

  Singles

  Hammer of War

  Atlantis

  The Colony

  Brookhaven

  American Superhero

  Catch me online:

  johndavisbooks.wordpress.com

  “History will be kind to me; for I intend to write it.”

  Winston Churchill

  Table of Contents

  The Journal of Emma Wilson

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Entry 1

  First journal entry, December 7th.

  Clowns suck. I mean, let's face it. They look like complete idiots, smell of cheap liquor and have a smile that only a mother could love. Yet, my parents have once again gone above and beyond with the clowns. Other girls get live bands. Possibly even a weekend trip to somewhere incredibly exclusive. Not Emma Wilson. For my seventeenth birthday, I was treated to not one, but two clowns; Clinton White and his boy Ellis. These are two local guys who I swear would do anything for beer money. Everybody knows it... Except for my parents, obviously.

  I am pretty sure that it gets no lower than a birthday clown, from a career aspect, but then I began to think about it. Imagine being the assistant clown, Ellis. Essentially a second fiddle in the sport of stupid Human tricks for children in exchange for beer money. Yes, children. Not seventeen-year-old girls who are making the final push toward adulthood. But apparently, my parents missed the memo.

  Of course, no new cell phone was to be had on this day either. You know the one I had at first hinted for and later blatantly spoke of. I even described the phone to them in vivid detail. Bright pink with a spacious touch screen, the ability to take high-definition video and upload it to social networking sites in the push of a single button. We're talking 360 videos, folks! Digital music player, lush headphones and a crack resistant exterior. I mean I did everything but walk them to the store and put it in their hands. A sealed deal, right?

  Wrong. In case you haven't guessed by now, I fetched a journal for my birthday instead. Yep, a good old book filled with paper, one sheet for every single day of the year, all snugly wrapped inside of a leather casing. Not exactly a prize after inviting everyone I know to celebrate this glorious day. I feel like a captain on the high seas a few centuries ago. The world is flat and I'm hunting sea creatures. That sort of thing. Writing is so yesterday.

  At first, I had decided that I'd never use the journal. It was my reaction to being so let down and embarrassed that even the clowns felt bad for me. I'm sure of it. But then I decided to get clever, or at least be a sarcastic-ass about the entire experience, because, well, being sarcastic is what I do best.

  I figured there was no better way to make my grief known than to bash what had quickly become the worst birthday party ever, logging my bitching down onto the good old black and white, and then leaving it laying around for all to see. Yep, it will become my official bitching platform.

  As a side note, I'm strongly suspicious that the lead clown, Clinton, arrived intoxicated. I swear that my parents are so naïve. It's sad, actually. Grownups have this inability to see the world the way teenagers do. Clinton's makeup is on crooked and he smells like malt liquor. I know it's him, too. I remember seeing his sorry face at the local Mart store. Coincidentally, it was during a trip in which I was secretly planting my parents with the information on the new phone. The phone that I should have.

  I suppose clowns are fun though. Not really.

  God, I hate my life right now! I just want to slide under a table and hide my face. Every friend I've ever had since grade school is here to see this!

  Life is so unfair.

  Entry 2

  I woke up this morning feeling a bit more refreshed.

  Maybe when I get to school nobody will even remember the biggest tank of a birthday party ever. Clinton and his boy Ellis were the last to leave and I'm pretty sure they tried to pick up one of my neighbors in the process. Mrs. Duke is married! They say there's a bright side to everything. I suppose my friends not seeing my two birthday clowns trying to run game on my married neighbor is good, right?

  Ah, who in the hell am I kidding? My friends will still consider this to be the worst birthday party ever! I'll be the talk of the school thanks to my parents and their ability to destroy even the easiest of tasks.

  At least I still have my old phone. Or should I say the beater? It's been dropped a few times and has several months of use on it, which is an eternity by today's standards. It works well enough to make calls though, which is all I will need in order to hear from friends when they call from their new cell phones. Not that anyone calls or texts anymore. It's all about apps now and, according to my phone, my only two apps are calculator and calendar. Blah.

  I kind of feel like that Bella chick. The one from the vampire movies, except I don't have the dramatic daddy issues. Or the lust for a teenager who's both dead and suicidal. How does that even work? You're dead, guy. I believe suicide has passed you by. Mom says the movies are based on books, but my dad says they're even worse. Hard to imagine, but he reads on a regular basis so I trust him.

  At least I have this journal to bitch to.

  Entry 3

  Well, it's Saturday, so I guess that's something.

  The sting of my birthday party (and I use the term party very lightly) has been hushed a bit. Mainly due to the large party expected to happen at Eric Howell's tonight.

  Will I get to go? Of course not. I'll be forced to sit down with my parents and watch the news as usual. But come Monday morning, the entire school will be talking about the events of his party and, with any luck, will have forgotten about mine.

  I'm actually beginning to like this
journal a bit. My dad told me at the party that it would become the most important book I've ever owned. He said I would look back on it and laugh one day while re-living everything I've been through during the year.

  I've just grown fond of it because it's therapeutic. It's my one chance a day to bitch and moan about anything I want to, essentially taking the place of alcohol during my teenage years. You know, the kind of alcohol that will be readily available at Eric's party tonight. But, no matter! There's a positive side to everything, and in this case, I'd say that there is zero possibility of me getting drunk and doing something stupid while watching the news. Fun times.

  Entry 4

  Looks like Monday will be filled with both a day at school and a trip to the doctor's office. I'm not even sick!

  My parents are full-blown hypochondriacs. Anything they see on television, in their eyes, is coming our way. Doomsday! Run for your lives!

  Actually, my dad saw a small segment involving an outbreak of influenza in Europe. I'm sad to report that I'm pretty much the only girl in my school who can spell influenza without the help of an Internet search engine. Score one for the parents who force their seventeen-year-old daughter to watch the news.

  Anyway, they're calling it the Eastern Flu, and from the reporting segment, it's pretty bad over there. Over there being the key phrase, as I'm over here. I've tried to explain this very important piece of information to my parents. But, their fear of someone with the EF walking from Europe and arriving at my doorstep is true. So, with that said, it looks like I'll be going on Monday to get some sort of a vaccination shot.

  It's experimental, which I've also explained to them could be just as dangerous as the actual disease. Even used a news segment I saw months back as reference. But my dad has insisted. He's been following the story as closely as possible, almost to the point of obsession.

  I feel for the guy, I honestly do. There are plenty of worthy things to obsess over. Things like cell phones, social networking, and fashion. Politics is not what makes the world go round – the Kardashians do. None of which he has any clue about, but if he did, he wouldn't be my dad. I love the big lug, and as close as he's been following the story on the outbreak, if he says the immunization shot is safe then I trust him.

  Entry 5

  Dad said the outbreak was a big deal, and now his words hold true.

  Tonight, rather than watching the stars dance on television, I'm hit with a special address to the nation by our President. Wow, really? The least he can do, if he's going to broadcast on every single channel, is get up and dance while he delivers it. This is ridiculous!

  I'm scheduled for a stop at the doctor's office tomorrow afternoon, but my parents have decided to let me stay home from school in order to be there when they open. Finally, having insanely obsessive parents pays off!

  A few of the things our President is saying tonight are frightening. People in Europe are dying, lots of them. I mean, people die every day, but from the sounds of things, they are dropping by the thousands. He's halted all international travel until the outbreak clears up, and that includes goods. I wonder if that includes the brown meat of mystery they serve up at school every few days?

  An even bigger question is what to do after we leave the doctor's office tomorrow? Or, should I say, which store is running the best sale? Because I might not have the best social life, or craziest parties, or even the newest phone. But my fashion has always been front and center, and I'm not about to let it slide.

  Entry 6

  We arrived at the doctor's office this morning for a quick shot before we hit the road. Mom and I had planned on making a day of it while dad went to visit some friends, though he wouldn't say why.

  Big surprise for both of us as we pulled up to see a line of nearly three hundred people waiting. Are you kidding me? Most of them were adults, but a few my own age are here as well, each of us sharing the same look of social shame.

  Doctor Anderson and my dad have been friends since grade school, and today is one of those days that I wish he were here. If he was, I'd already be in there getting the shot. What's worse is we've been here for less than twenty minutes and have another hundred or more people already behind us in line. This is getting a little crazy, but no fear, there is plan!

  I'll take a photo with my phone (assuming the camera actually works on this digital dinosaur) and text it to my dad. He's emotionally tied to this story so much that he'll call the doctor himself. At least I hope so, otherwise, this entire day will be a disaster.

  Entry 7

  I was right yesterday.

  Less than fifteen minutes after sending my dad a text, we were moved to the front of the line. When I went in, they had nearly five-hundred people waiting and less than seventy-five shots to distribute. In other words, I took my shot and we got the hell out of there.

  My mom didn't take hers, not that they were offering it anyway. She felt the medicine should go to a child and the nurses weren't happy that we were shuffled to the front, to begin with. And let's not get into how pissed off the people we skipped in line were. Like I said before, we got the hell out of there.

  Dad is back from his visit with friends. No mention of where he was, at least not to me. All I can say is that he's been acting very strange. I've walked into a quiet conversation between mom and dad several times, both of them cutting it short after discovering me. It's almost as if they are covering something up.

  I'm not sure what to think about any of this. All of the regular television programming has been replaced with continuing news coverage of the crisis in Europe. Remember when music television played music, the cartoon networks played cartoons and that weather channel covered weather? I know it's completely random, just saying.

  My school, as well as those around these parts, have all closed for the entire week. It's too much for this sarcastic girl's mind to process. I'm going to bed.

  Entry 8

  Today I started to realize how bad this is.

  Even at seventeen, I've learned the feeling you get when a moment arrives that could change everything. I'm writing this because this afternoon I turned the television on in order to grab a quick glance of what was taking place with the outbreak. The plan was to update my dad, then grab a bowl of cereal before settling in for a much-needed nap.

  When the first glance I got was an older man dressed in a United States Army jacket and slacks, speaking somberly about continued airstrikes in Central Europe, it was one of those very moments that stunned me. At first, I thought about the fact that these were the first steps of a war that my own children would learn about in school one day. And as scary as that thought was, it would have been heaven-sent compared to what was actually happening.

  The European Union had requested the airstrikes. They had pleaded with world powers to begin striking their own citizens in problem areas, which amounted to areas of substantial outbreak. Attack planes from the United States, Japan, China and North Korea (yes, the country with horrific leadership) had answered the bell, each of them ordering carpet bomb strikes over the areas requested by those in power across Europe.

  The outbreak had gone viral, spreading like wildfire across their continent and bringing with it sobering statistics. The Eastern Flu (or EF1) had killed fifty-seven percent of those infected with it within twenty-four hours. Ten percent seemed to be immune to the disease, either through genetics or because of the immunization shot. But thirty-three percent of those who were exposed became violent. Violent beyond any stretch of the imagination. They weren't showing much footage of the violent infected, but I figure that's by design. I've watched the news long enough to realize that they only show you what they want you to see. It's like professional wrestling for the sophisticated.

  They explained to viewers that the virus attacked a very small percentage of the human brain, which controlled a majority of function. They were asking viewers not to call the infected “zombies”, stating time and time again that they were not actually dead. Instead,
they were calling them both thirty-three and infected.

  When someone fell into that thirty-three percent, for whatever reason, they lost all function except the one which allowed them to kill. Brief videos showed them running innocent people down in the streets, mauling them to death and killing them. It wasn't for brains, believe me, the news anchors continued to state that, along with the fact that they were in no way, shape or form, zombies.

  They didn't even cut to the normal barrage of bullshit commercials offering medicine with questionable benefit and substantial side effects. You know, take this pill once a day and you'll feel less tired. Oh, by the way, you may go blind, grow an extra kidney, have trouble breathing or even die. But you'll feel less tired.

  The infected simply chased down anything living and began biting, fighting and clawing until the innocent victim (Human or wildlife according to the news) was dead. They were overrunning military barriers in every clip that I saw. Most of the footage was from the air, and even then the things look like monsters.

  Sure looked like zombies to me.

  Entry 9

  Or should I say day two of the airstrikes? Several smaller nations have also begun striking portions of Europe in an attempt to halt the outbreak.

  All along the continent, the United Nations is creating 'Quarantine Checkpoints'. Heavily armed facilities where citizens are being asked to migrate to. After holding them for twenty-four hours, those deemed uninfected are then released into safe zones, while those showing symptoms of EF1 are being shot.