Dead Woman's Journal

by Ann Christy

  Dead Woman’s Journal

  A Between Life and Death Novel

  by Ann Christy

  Copyright © 2018 by Ann Christy

  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or otherwise, nor may it be stored in a database or private retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author, with the exception of brief quotations included in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses as permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, and events appearing or described in this work are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events, is purely coincidental and the product of a fevered imagination.

  Works by Ann Christy

  The Silo 49 Series

  Silo 49: Going Dark

  Silo 49: Deep Dark

  Silo 49: Dark Till Dawn

  Silo 49: Flying Season for the Mis-Recorded

  The Between Life and Death Series

  The In-Betweener

  Forever Between

  Between Life and Death

  The Book of Sam

  Savannah Slays

  Christmas Between Life and Death

  The Dead Woman’s Journal (Prequel)

  Strikers Series

  Strikers

  Strikers: Eastlands

  Into The Galaxy Duology

  Portals

  Portals: Saving Earth

  The Hub of Life (VIP Exclusive)

  Perfect Partners, Incorporated Series

  Robot Evolution

  Hope/Less

  Anthologies with Stories by Ann Christy

  Wool Gathering: A Charity Anthology

  Synchronic: 13 Tales of Time Travel

  The Robot Chronicles

  The Powers That Be: A Superhero Charity Anthology

  The Z Chronicles

  Alt.History 101

  Dark Beyond the Stars

  The Future Chronicles – Special Edition

  The Time Travel Chronicles

  The Doomsday Chronicles

  Dark Beyond the Stars 2: A Planet Too Far

  Dark Beyond the Stars: New Worlds, New Suns

  Chronicle Worlds: Tails of Dystopia

  Bridge Across The Stars

  Best of Beyond the Stars

  Welcome!

  If you’re new to the Between Life and Death world, then welcome to the apocalypse. You’re in good company. Don’t worry if you haven’t read any of the other books. This is a prequel, a book 0 to the completed series. No experience necessary.

  Many readers of the main, completed series asked for the origins tales of their favorite characters. Surprisingly, it was Sam—who featured so briefly—and Veronica, (who doesn’t love Veronica?), who got the most requests, so I published The Book of Sam. Second in frequency have been Savannah and Charlie, (of course, Charlie). After two years of work, Savannah Slays has been published, and now the world is complete.

  At least…my part of it is!

  As of this writing, one author has taken the Between world into new territory with a thrilling novel called Between Kings and Carnage. I invite other writers to delve into the world…if they so choose. Just drop me a line and I’ll get you access to the World Canon. Like Hugh Howey did for me, I want very much to encourage authors to explore and create!

  In Savannah Slays, their journey takes them briefly into a safe haven, a place to recover after the trauma that is the end of their world. This journal is what they find in that little oasis of safety. It seemed only right that you get to see it too. Savannah shouldn’t get to keep it to herself.

  Enjoy – Best regards, Ann Christy

  Prologue - The Discovery

  As the door swings open, Savannah’s fingers tighten around her weapon, her mind already shifting into that dead zone that makes killing the screamers possible. It’s the only way to deal with what she does, by almost blanking out. Screamers may not be truly human anymore, but that doesn’t make killing a monster wearing a human face any easier.

  Following their current protocol, Frankie steps into the house first, his footsteps confident and quiet, his weapon up and ready. He’s taller than either Savannah or Charlie, with more mass to throw behind his hammer swings. Given the unknown conditions inside the house, it’s their safest move.

  There’s no sound in the house. The cool air drifting out of the open door doesn’t smell of decay. It’s not even musty smelling, like a house closed up for a few months should be. The fact that there’s cool air at all is a surprise. A good surprise, which are rare things these days. The solar panels they saw on the roof must still be working.

  Next to her, Charlie tenses. He hates this part as much as she does, the waiting part. What kind of nasty surprise awaits them? There’s almost always a nasty surprise. The world may have ended just a few months ago, but it’s developed a pattern. Nasty surprises and monsters are the pillars supporting that new pattern.

  Frankie returns quickly and motions them inside. His expression is less grave than it was a moment ago. “The house is clear,” he whispers. “At least downstairs is clear. If there was anything here, it would have started screaming when the floorboards creaked.”

  They cluster in the foyer, which is open to the rest of the house. Almost the entire bottom floor is visible from this spot, which explains how Frankie was able to clear it so quickly. There are spots she can’t see, but overall, it’s wide open. The space seems friendly with bright sunshine streaming through the windows.

  Charlie runs a finger across the foyer table, leaving a little streak of darker wood. “There’s not much dust. Not as much as the other houses anyway. Maybe there’s a human here.”

  A bright pink square of paper stands out against the white door of a small coat closet. Savannah steps over to read it. “Hey, look at this. It says welcome.”

  Frankie nods absently, his face already set as he looks up the stairs toward the second floor. “There are more in the kitchen like that. Can you go look? I didn’t stop to read them. I’m going to check upstairs, just to be sure we’re alone.”

  Looking torn between staying with Savannah and going with Frankie, Charlie asks, “Should I stay here or go up?”

  With a wave for him to go, Savannah heads for the kitchen. Notes are weird, but not at all threatening, and the house feels empty. It just has the air of a house no longer occupied. That’s something else she’s learned after breeching so many houses. Empty houses feel empty. The guys’ footsteps on the stairs are quiet, fading as she takes in the pink squares all over the open kitchen and dining area. They’re everywhere.

  On the fridge, one reads, If the power is still on, food should be okay. Day 60. On the faucet, Hot water only! Cold not safe! On a wall outlet, Circuits turned off at breaker. Turn on to use. On the door next to the garage, Solar equipment and house battery. Don’t touch until you read the manual.

  There are more, and she scans each one, wondering who the notes were meant for. It seems unlikely these were meant for a stranger. Who would do that? Perhaps they should go to one of the other homes in the neighborhood. If someone is expected here, the last thing they want is to be caught sleeping by someone who actually belongs in this house. Finding friendly people would be a good thing. Why run the risk of making them unfriendly by taking their home?

  Charlie’s hard, quick footsteps on the stairway break her train of thought, and she meets him back in the foyer. The fact that he’s walking and not silencing his footfalls tells her the house is clear upstairs. He shakes his head and smiles wearily
to let her know all is well.

  The kid is tired, the circles under his eyes deep and dark. He needs sleep in a safe place. He needs food and a sense of security. Savannah has been able to provide none of those things since the camp. Guilt washes over her, but she pushes it back. It’s not useful and right now, they need to focus on useful things.

  “Anything?” she asks.

  “Lots more notes. They’re stuck all over the place. Frankie is going through everything up there, but it’s clear. No bodies, no people. It’s even clean. If I had to guess, I’d say someone was here until pretty recently, but they aren’t here anymore.”

  With a little shake of her head at their luck, which has been largely bad since escaping from the camp, Savannah looks around at the tidy home with its faint scent of lavender and air-conditioned coolness. A flash of pink draws her eye back to the foyer table. There’s a heavy, cut crystal vase on top. Under that vase, there’s a book. The black marks of writing are wavy from the facets on the bottom of the vase. She hands her weapon to Charlie and eases out the book.

  It’s a journal, which is normally a private thing, but the pink slip of paper stuck to the front says otherwise. Read Me. I’ll Help You.

  “Huh,” Charlie grunts, eyeing the note with suspicion. When she looks up at him, he asks, “Is it just me, or is this whole situation weird? It feels seriously weird. A house with solar and air conditioning and no one home?”

  Savannah only shrugs, because really, how else should she respond? It is weird, but maybe they’re being thrown off because it’s a good kind of weird. When it comes right down to it, everything is weird now. People have turned into raging cannibals, the nanites that once saved lives turning them into monsters, and human civilization has ended in a few short months. Weird is simply the way life is.

  “Or maybe we just got lucky,” he says when she doesn’t answer. He’s looking for confirmation. He needs assurances that everything is okay. Savannah knows this about him by now.

  “Maybe,” she says, riffling the pages of the book. The edges of the pages are worn and it looks like almost every page has been written on. “Grant sent us here because his house is in this neighborhood, but he did say his neighbors were all good people. Maybe that’s all it is.”

  “That would be a nice change,” he says, still glancing nervously around the room. She knows he doesn’t quite believe they could have good luck after so much bad luck.

  Smoothing a hand across the cover, Savannah opens the book to find a list clipped to the front page, along with a hand-drawn map of the houses in this tiny neighborhood. The list is labeled First Things First. Holding it up for Charlie, she says, “It’s very organized. Whoever left this meant for someone to find it.”

  A sound upstairs, followed by Frankie’s running footsteps, makes her drop the book and snatch back her weapon. At the top of the stairs, Frankie says, “Come up. You guys have to see this!”

  He doesn’t sound afraid, only surprised, a notion confirmed by his bemused expression. They hurry upstairs, and he waves them down the hall to the last room. It’s a large bedroom, very neat and clean. Even the bed is made.

  “Check the closet. I…I don’t even know what to say about it,” he says, then stands away from the door so they can enter. The light dims a little when he squeezes in behind them.

  Savannah understands his confusion immediately. The closet is huge, almost a room in itself. Just inside are built-in shelves, but those shelves hold no clothes, no neatly folded pants or shirts. Instead, these racks and shelves are for limbs.

  Artificial limbs.

  Several types of leg are fitted into racks that seem to have been built specifically for them. Some are flesh-toned, meant to look like human legs. Others are blatantly metal, swoops and curves advertising their artificial nature, rather than disguising it. One pair has been powder-coated in bright blue, with white stars sprinkled across the blue, and two red, diagonal stripes. The letters USA are etched in gold on the outer sides. Tucked into shelves are an astonishing array of feet, and in two, the smooth curves of running blades.

  They all stand there for a long moment, trying to make sense of what they’re seeing.

  “Who owned this house?” Frankie asks, still eyeing the shelves of feet.

  Shaking her head to clear the surprise, Savannah says, “Well, she left a book downstairs. A journal, I think. It says we should read it. I think if the journal and notes were meant for someone specific, there would have been a name or something.”

  “How do you know it’s a she?”

  Pointing to a shelf containing two artificial feet wearing a pair of plain black pumps, she says, “I’m just guessing.”

  With a smile, Frankie says, “Good guess. I missed that with all the other stuff.”

  Unsure what to do next, they stand in the closet for another moment, eyeballing the strange display. Charlie finally asks the question always uppermost in his mind. “Is there food? Please tell me there’s food.”

  With a smile, Savannah pushes him toward the closet door. “Yes, at least, I think there is. There’s a note on the freezer. Let’s bring the rest of our stuff inside first, then Frankie can see what’s what.”

  Knowing how badly she cooks, she never volunteers for that duty. Food is too precious for her to make it inedible. That she’s not permitted to cook without supervision is a given. Even rice isn’t safe in her hands. She’ll turn it into glue or burn it into crunchy concrete. If there were food to spare, she’d keep trying, but there isn’t.

  Downstairs, the guys go directly to the kitchen. There are gleeful noises and moans of pleasure at what they find behind cabinet doors and inside the freezer. Savannah doesn’t follow them, despite the siren song of food calling her. The book lies open on the floor, the paper-clipped list and map lying askew. Picking it up, she settles onto the couch, ignoring all the tasks that need to be done. Right now, she just wants to read.

  The Journal

  Day 9 - Morning

  I’ve read somewhere that one should never start a book with the weather or the day of a person’s birth. I’m not sure where I read that little gem, but it came to me just now as I looked at the first, disturbingly blank page of this journal. It’s a fat book and if there’s anything more intimidating than a blank book, it’s a fat blank book. There’s more expectation. The paper is smooth, but not so smooth that it feels cheap. Writing in it feels a bit like ruining it..

  This isn’t my first journal, so I shouldn’t be such a ninny. This is only my second one though. The first was the one my therapist gave me after I left the hospital. It was the day I went into a rehab center for months of pain and progress. I was twenty-two then. So young. Back then, I felt stupid writing in it. I’m not a natural journaler by any stretch of the imagination. There were no little pink diaries for me when I was small. I was more action and less introspection as a kid.

  That first journal had a purpose though. Journaling was supposed to help me process my trauma, the loss I experienced, the physical changes I would have to deal with for the rest of my life. I suppose it did the job well enough, but I confess that I felt best about it on the day I burned it in the firepit behind my house. That was when this house was new, still unlived in. Back then there were boxes and bare walls and new furniture meant to be comfortable for a person in my condition. It was all new, all shiny. Everything wrapped in plastic and stain-free.

  I remember that day, the day of the first fire in my firepit. Lighting it made me feel very independent. My therapist said it was me claiming my new space, which might have been true. It was nice though. I loved the smell of good, dry wood catching, but not the harsh scent of the cover’s artificial materials catching fire. I remember the strange way the smoke changed as the pages covered with ink and tears burned away.

  That’s what I remember most, the strange smoke. Also, I remember worrying that the wooden deck built for my wheelchair might catch fire and leave me stranded in the yard, which would have been a super-embarra
ssing start to my new life. That was years ago, but I remember it like it was yesterday.

  Anyway, that was my first journal, and I truly thought it would be my last. It was written under duress, me giving way to the pressure of a therapist whose opinion meant a lot to me. Her nudges forced me to pick up the pen. This journal will certainly be my last. Of that I’m sure, though I’m sure of almost nothing else. Or at least, I’m not entirely certain of much else. I’m not sure how I can ever be certain of anything at all ever again. The world has ended and that pretty much turns everything on its head.

  It’s because of that uncertainty that I need this journal. Every choice I make now is filled with consequences, most of them the life-or-death sort. That’s heavy stuff to carry alone, so writing things down might help put them into perspective. It worked before. Plus, I can’t talk to anyone else about most of those choices. I have to consider everything carefully, and I have to do it on my own.

  I’m not sure what I really intend here with this journal. Is it just paper therapy? We could call it that. I guess we’ll see what happens. Anyway, here goes.

  Rather than commit the error of beginning with the weather—which is always interesting this time of year—or my birth—because who cares about that—I’ll start where it’s most logical to start: my death.

  Day 9 - Afternoon

  No, I’m not a ghost. Nor am I gasping out my last while contemplating a three-hundred-page journal filled with lovely paper. I’m also not being dramatic, because it’s really the logical place to start. It’s more that I’d like to get that part out of the way. One of those life-or-death decisions needs to be made regarding my own death. It seems reasonable to get it out on the table. I’d like to deal with that first. Maybe it will make everything else easier to deal with.

  I only had to stop writing earlier because there are things to do these days that can’t be put off. Things like the crazy Awakened that we need to protect ourselves from. And yes, that also involves me dying, but in the exact opposite way that everyone else is worried about dying.