After Everyone Died (The Survivor Journals Book 1)

by Sean Little

  I’d been scared for most of the last year. Death had seemed so easy in the last year and a half; you’d think I’d be used to it. You’d think it would just stop bothering me.

  You’d think.

  I had to admit that death was still out there waiting for me. I was under no delusions that I might be immortal. I knew that eventually it would come. At that moment, I was just scared I might go alone. Adam didn’t die alone, even for all his horrific deeds, maybe dying alone would have been a fitting punishment. Meri died with me at her side. Granted, I was useless, but I was there, holding her hand when she went. Even Rowdy died with me, curled up on his bed with me standing nearby. Who was going to be there for me when it was my time?

  I merged onto the Interstate, heading south. With no traffic and no cops to watch for, the miles passed quickly. The road was rougher than I remembered after a winter of frost heaves and contractions without constant traffic to counteract a lot of it. I still blew past Janesville and Beloit and crossed over the Illinois border. I drove through Rockford and Rochelle. Night fell as I hit LaSalle. I pulled over at the side of the highway to relieve myself. I breathed in the night air, still warm from the day. It smelled different than it did in Sun Prairie.

  I checked the map as long as I was stopped. I was even with Chicago. Turning east would get me to the city in about an hour. I could go to the city and look for survivors one last time. Maybe even go to Gary, Indiana, then to Indianapolis before heading down to St. Louis.

  I looked out at the swath of road that stretched before me, a massive slab of concrete and possibilities. I could go anywhere, really. I still had at least four months before real cold would hit the north. It was still the dead of summer. I could go east and drive through major cities looking for signs of life. I could see New York and Boston before heading south along the Atlantic Coast. I could detour through Georgia and Florida and pluck ripe fruit from the trees before backtracking through Tennessee, Alabama, and Mississippi on my way to Louisiana. I could even hit Texas and Oklahoma, if I tried.

  I found Meri, and she found me. Adam found the both of us. There had to be more survivors out there. Maybe there was some kid barely getting by. Maybe it was a woman in a situation like Meri’s with some horrid man abusing her. Maybe there was a man scraping out an existence like I did, and we could do better to support each other. Who knew what lay out there before me?

  I could go straight to Louisiana and set up house in Madisonville. It would be comfortable, sure, but it wouldn’t answer my questions. If there were other people out there, maybe they were looking for me like I was looking for them. Maybe they were putting notices in pharmacy and hardware store windows. Maybe they had written on the walls of places where they’d survived their first year after the Flu.

  Maybe.

  I couldn’t be sure until I got there myself.

  I made the decision to go east. The second I told myself to do it in my mind, there was a swelling of joy in my chest. I was doing the right thing. I knew I was.

  I gave a long, loud whoop. I was alive, and I was going to see the rest of the country, or at least the eastern half of it before I settled myself in the south and started the world over. It was a good feeling. There would be a lot to see and do, and I couldn’t wait to get started.

  I ate in the RV still sitting in the southbound lane on Interstate Highway 90. I cracked open a can of tuna and ate it with some crackers. I drank a twenty-ounce bottle of Coke. It was a night for celebrating, after all. Then, I stepped out of the RV to brush and floss before heading back to Chicago.

  I stood on the side of the road brushing my teeth, swigging from a water bottle when I was done to rinse, and I spat into the long grass on the side of the road. I was about to head back into the RV when I heard a small, peaked “mew.”

  A handsome black-and-white cat slithered out of the grass and walked over to me, rubbing its head on my shin. It purred loudly. It had apparently not forgotten what humans were, and what they meant. It’s fur was a little dirty from a year of living outdoors, but it was healthy enough. Trust cats to not be fazed by a lack of humanity.

  I knelt and scratched the cat’s head and ran my fingers down its body. It had collected a few ticks. I plucked them out and tossed them into the grass. The cat rubbed its head against my shin gratefully and twirled a figure-eight around my ankles. “Who are you, buddy?” I asked. The cat purred loudly, a deep, throaty rumble. It was a male, and he had been neutered before the Flu. The cat had to be at least two years old, maybe older. He looked fully grown with a big head and thick body. He had been eating fairly well over the past year.

  I gave the cat a last scratching down its body and stood again. “Maybe I’ve got something for you.” I went back into the RV to get the can of tuna. There was still some scrapings in the can that the cat might enjoy. When I turned around, the cat was in the RV, perched upon the little table next to my typewriter, looking up at me expectantly.

  “Are you coming with?” I asked. The cat meowed and batted at me with its paw, clearly begging for attention or the tuna can, or both. I set the can down and the cat went to work digging out the scraps with its tongue. I kept petting him as he did. When he finished, he licked his chops and jumped off the table. He walked to the front of the RV and climbed up in the window, laying down on the expansive, still-warm dashboard, wedging himself in the space where the windshield came down to the console.

  “I guess you are coming with me,” I said. “Welcome aboard. To be frank, I could use the company.” I shut and latched the side door of the RV. I stepped over the center console into the driver’s seat and started the RV. The cat didn’t seem fazed in the least. I shifted to Drive and started motoring down the highway, taking the turn east back to Chicago.

  “You’ll need a name,” I said. “I’m not going to call you ‘Cat’ for the rest of your life.”

  The cat narrowed his eyes at me, squeezing them to sleepy slits.

  “How about Rowdy?”

  The cat gave no reaction. It had been worth a shot.

  “Fuzzball? George? Miss Prettypaws?”

  The cat opened his eyes and gave a bored lash of his tail. There was something about his bearing and manner, combined with the fact that he was almost entirely black save for his white tummy and paws, that made me think of Morticia Addams for some reason. Given his gender, I didn’t think calling him Morticia would fit, so I tried the other names. “Gomez?”

  Silence.

  “Fester?”

  The cat mewed slightly, a high-pitched half-mew that a kitten might make. I reminded me of Uncle Fester’s high, squeaky voice. I took that as a yes.

  “Fester it is, then.”

  The sky to the east was a deep, steel gray. Night was coming fast. “I’m going to need a litter box for you, Fester. And maybe some dry food, if I can find it. I will stop at the first pet store I see.”

  A small mew in response.

  “You and me, Fester--we’re going to have ourselves a time, you know?”

  Another mew.

  “I’ve never had a cat before, you know? I’ve always liked cats, though.”

  Mew.

  “Well, if you’re going to be my new best friend, I’m going to need to tell you a story about a dopey Labrador Retriever named Rowdy who was simultaneously the bravest and the dumbest dog I’ve ever known. You don’t fart much, do you?”

  Fester narrowed his eyes again. His tail twitched lazily.

  The road was empty before me, my headlights playing over the concrete in the growing dusk. I felt better at that moment. Lighter. I felt like this was the way things should be. I was adjusting to the new sense of normal. I was alone, but Meri had given me hope that other people might be out there. I would find them. I had lost the best friend I’d ever had, but I had a new friend, at least for a while. I had purpose.

  And I was alive. Regardless of anything else, I was still alive.

  And that was enough, for now.

  -The End-

>   About the Author

  Sean Patrick Little lives in Sun Prairie, Wisconsin. He writes a lot. He watches too much TV. He plays guitar and bass badly. He likes watching baseball in the summer and football in the fall.

  You can follow Sean on Twitter or Facebook. He’s not terribly exciting, but he likes the attention all the same.

  A Note from the Author

  A couple of things about this book, because I figure you might ask. Or, if you don’t ask, at least you can know and perhaps it will enhance your understanding of this work just a smidgen.

  Rowdy is based off of two dogs: the first is the Yellow Labrador Retriever my family had when I was young. His name was Fred and he was the greatest dog this world has ever produced. His flatulence could drop a fly off a meat wagon. He was scared of thunder and insisted on waking me up whenever a storm rolled in during the night. He is sorely missed. The second dog was the taxidermied dog J.D. and Turk had on the TV show Scrubs. If Bill Lawrence (creator of Scrubs), by some small, infinitesimal chance ever reads this book, he needs to know that I have loved every show he has produced and if he needs a writer, I will volunteer as tribute.

  The town of Sun Prairie, the library, and other locations are real. Even the bowling alley in the middle of nowhere. I grew up in Southern Wisconsin, I currently live in Sun Prairie, and I love this part of the state. I like the people and the weather six months of the year. (Like Twist, I am no fan of winter.) I highly recommend visiting this area if you’ve never been. Come during the summer. Go to Wisconsin Dells. See the capitol in Madison. Drive to Blue Mounds State Park and climb the watchtowers. It will do you some good.

  If you read and enjoy this book, please consider writing a review on a site like Amazon or Goodreads. Positive reviews mean the world to an author and even simple reviews like “I liked it” help our sales. Also, tell a friend. Word of mouth is the best marketing any author can ask.

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to my beta-readers, especially Jack, Jordan, Chinstrap (Seth), Amanda, Ann, and whomever else gave me feedback on this who I’m currently forgetting. Thanks to Cassandra for her input. Thanks to Paige, who gave me a cover.

  Many thanks to Maddy Hunter, for her encouragement and belief. And thanks to the crew at Mystery to Me in Madison. I know this is an ebook, but please—support your local independent bookstores. They are important!

  Thanks to my parents, who made me love reading and told me I could tell my own stories. Thanks to Beverly Cleary, who wrote Dear Mr. Henshaw, which I read in second grade, and it made me think I could actually write a book. Thanks to TSR, for publishing the game manuals that taught me to build my own worlds. Thanks to all my creative writing teachers, too.

  Thanks to Kaija, who puts up with me, and Annika, who entertains me. Thanks to Marley, for walking over my keyboard whenever I try to work, and Lucky, who politely ignores me most of the time, except for when he wants kitty treats.