by Weir, R. K.
I skim through the next few pages, most of it just detailing the writer working up the courage to start more conversations with Emma.
Marshall's realized that the six of us aren't enough to deal with the amount of biters in Las Vegas. We almost got overwhelmed again today. Phase one has officially been changed to recruiting more people. "Uniting the remnants of humanity in one last crusade!" He sounds like a fucking lunatic to me, but everyone else is eating it up.
We think there might be people in the Natural History Museum. We heard noises coming from there awhile ago, like power tools or something. I think they're reinforcing the place. Whatever they're doing they're making one hell of a ruckus. All that noise has flooded the streets with biters. I hope they have everything they need to survive in that museum because I don't see them getting out anytime soon...
Maisie's stopped us to look inside a pet store. She's picking out a toy for her lamp. I'd tell her to move on but I'm far too engrossed in this journal to really care.
So, something totally bizarre has happened. Practically overnight, every biter outside the museum has . . . disappeared? Like, literally vanished. POOF! Vaporized from the face of the planet. There wasn't even any blood or body parts. Marshall thinks they've just dispersed back out into the city, but even the streets seem quieter.
When we went round to the museum and knocked on the door, no one answered. There was definitely someone inside though. We heard feet shuffling about. They weren't trying very hard not to be heard. I suppose they just aren't interested in teaming up with other survivors. That's fair enough. People aren't always nice.
But that's alright. We don't need their help anymore. A huge group of people came through the city the other day. 23 in total. They looked like shit. Underfed and dehydrated. If they didn't speak I would have thought they were biters. We gave them some food and water and they've agreed to help us clear out the city.
It's starting to look possible now. We've already cleared out Downtown.
I lift my eyes up to find that we're in an eye-glass repair shop now. Gale is looking through the racks, trying on different pairs of spectacles. This task wasn't supposed to be a shopping trip, but I think I'm close to finding some answers from this journal, so I keep quiet for now and let them do what they want.
Emma smiled at me today. We weren't even talking or anything. I just looked up and there she was, smiling at me. I tried to think of something witty to say to her, but all that came out was a jumble of words that probably left me sounding like I was having a seizure or something. God! It was so embarrassing! I went out on a clean-up run after that just so I could avoid her.
Oh, right. I forgot to mention this. Marshall wants us cleaning up the areas that are free from biters now. At first I thought he just meant picking up and burning the bodies, but he wants us to clean up everything. Broken glass, knocked over clothing racks, dried blood. It's way over the top if you ask me. He even has us parking the cars that are clogging the roads. Someone's been funneling the gas from them so we have to move them by force.
It's a lot of hard work, but I can't say it isn't worth it. The place is actually starting to look normal again.
So while the Gas Man was taking all the fuel, these people were busy cleaning the streets. Surely they would have bumped into each other at some point? Not to mention it would have taken both groups a considerable amount of time to achieve what they have. Why would the Gas Man lie about them only moving in recently?
Turns out there are more people living in Las Vegas than we thought. The more districts we clear, the more people we find. Our camp has grown to 87. Just today we found two new people. Twins! How cool is that? The guy seems nice enough but I think his sister might be missing a few marbles. She kept asking if I was bleeding because my shirt is red.
"Maisie!" I exclaim, because I'm almost certain she must be who the journal is referring to. "You knew these people!" I say.
She looks down at the journal. "There are people in there?"
I flick back through the pages and pick out the names that have been mentioned. "Marshall? Emma? Do you remember any of them?"
She shakes her head and goes back to helping Gale pick out a new pair of glasses. She couldn't remember where she was taking us when she was leading us to the Gas Man, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that she can't remember these people either. I watch her for a moment longer before turning back to the page I was on.
Not everyone is willing to join us of course. There are quite a few people staying at the country club. And a group of assholes that have set themselves up in a hotel. They don't bother us if we leave them alone though. And I'm pretty sure they're working to clear out the biters as well. The district around their hotel seemed pretty barren anyway.
The next two pages are just covered in hastily scrawled love hearts.
I overheard Emma talking about how much she loved Disney films today. It gave me an idea. While I was out with a scavenger party I broke off on my own to find one of those Disney stores. I should have tried to find out which movie is her favorite, because the place was filled with all sorts of merchandise. I ended up just taking a plush toy of Nala from The Lion King. Problem is, now I have no idea how I'm supposed to give it to her without sounding like a total stalker.
I don't normally listen in on her conversations! She just happened to be standing behind me while I was eating! Ugh, I'm sure I'll figure something out. Maybe leave it on her bed or something. But I want to see her reaction! I can already imagine her smile when she finds it. I swear, she has the nicest smile of anyone I've ever seen.
I flip the page over to find a detailed sketch of a woman I presume to be Emma. I'm about to skip over the next few pages, assuming they're nothing more than love letters, when a scrawl on one page catches my attention. It's in a different handwriting, messier than the one that fills the rest of the journal.
Amy! You're supposed to be keeping track of the work we've been doing! Not proclaiming your love for Emma on every page. . . We agreed to write everything down so we can keep a record of what we still need to do, and also so people in the future can see how we've survived. This journal could end up as a relic in a museum one day! Please take it seriously! If you aren't going to I'll get someone else to do it.
- Marshall
P.S. Emma likes you too. Stop writing about how pretty her smile is and go talk to her.
Underneath Marshall's message, Amy has scrawled her own.
Note to self: hide journal better next time.
I almost laugh at that, but then I remember the reason I'm reading this journal in the first place. To find answers. While it's explained a few things, it's ignored the more pressing questions I have, and there are only a few pages left to answer them.
We've almost reached the bottom floor, and while I haven't been paying attention I assume Maisie and Gale haven't found anything else, so I tell them to start heading back up to the top.
It's official. Emma and I are dating now! Oh, and Las Vegas is totally wiped of biters. Which is cool too I guess. Now Marshall wants to build a wall around the city to prevent any more from stumbling in. Totally ridiculous. We're practically in the middle of the desert anyway. If any biters do manage to get to us, they'll be crawling. But Marshall, like usual, is persistent with his plans. And now that we have over a hundred people here, he thinks we can pull it off easily.
I don't see any need to. We haven't seen any biters in weeks and people feel safe enough as it is. Some of the women are even talking about getting pregnant! Can you believe it? The fact that they feel safe enough to even consider such a prospect speaks volumes!
Anyway, I think that's about all there is to write about today. A few people are going out to have a picnic on one of the golf courses, but Emma wants to climb that fake Eiffel Tower. I'm terrified of heights, but she really wants to do it and I only want to make her happy.
I just hope I don't freak out once we're up there.
I'm starting to think that re
ading all this was a waste of time when the beginning of the next entry catches my eye.
Something weird is going on. People are . . . going missing. I know Las Vegas is a big place and all, but usually everyone comes back to camp by night. No one’s ever stayed out for more than a day or two. At first it was hard to notice. Two or three people gone out of a hundred? Who's going to pick up on that? But now there's at least twenty people absent.
Emma thinks maybe they've just left and didn't have the heart to say goodbye. She's always looking on the brighter side of things. But why would they leave this place? Things are perfect here! No biters. Fresh food. A friendly community. We've even finished cleaning the streets.
Things are practically the way they used to be. Why would anyone want to leave that?
My hands are starting to tremble as they turn over to the next page. There are only two entries left.
More people have gone missing. There's less than half of us now. Everyone's starting to panic. Even Emma, who can calm down a hurricane, is struggling to settle people's nerves. Marshall has been looking into it for a few weeks now. He thinks the people in the hotel might have something to do with it. Says he heard screaming coming from there one night, and in the morning he saw them carrying out something that looked like a body, still alive, squirming about in their hands.
He hasn't told anyone else this. Doesn't want to cause more panic than there already is. I don't know what he plans to do about it though. A small family arrived today and he's spent most of his time focusing on them. They have a little girl with them, only around seven or eight years old. Her hair's the color of the sun and she wears a dress as bright and blue as the sky. She's managed to calm people down a bit. Bouncing around the place, squealing with laughter and making everyone smile.
I think Marshall's focusing on her because he doesn't have a plan.
We're almost back at the entrance when I get to the last entry. The words are shaky, the ink smeared and blotched with what I can only presume to be tears.
Marshall's gone. The little girl's gone. There are only fifteen of us left now. We're getting picked off one by one. I don't understand how it's possible. We haven't even seen anyone. It's like we're being taken away by shadows. I don't know what to do. We've moved into a shopping center. Maybe they won't find us here? But I feel like whoever it is that's doing this, they're watching us, constantly. I don't think I can take much more of this.
Emma. . . Emma's gone too. I just . . . I don't know. . .
I just want this to be over. . .
My heart is palpitating by the time I finish reading. I don't know what to make of it. The bandits were taking these people? Why? What for? Are they so sick that they kidnapped them just for the sake of murder? I hoped reading the journal would give me answers, and while it's given me a few, it's raised several more questions in their place. But there's one question that's bubbling to the top, rising above all the others.
"The Gas Man knew we wouldn't find anyone here," I say aloud. Because he must have known if he's been keeping tabs on them. "So why would he send us out here?"
Somehow, I think I already know the answer. But my mind is reeling, desperately trying to conjure up any other reason as to why he would send us here.
"They've probably gone on holiday," Maisie says, "I don't think he would have sent us if he knew."
"Unless . . ." Gale says, his voice trailing off like usual, too anxious to proceed.
This time however, I'm too interested in what he has to say to let him get away with it. Once we're out of the shopping center, back in the sun, I turn on him.
"Unless what?" I ask, even though I already know.
He looks at me but doesn't say anything.
"Unless what?" I ask again, because for once I'm the coward, too afraid to say it out loud, to make it real.
For another moment, hesitation snags his voice. And then he says it.
"Unless he wanted to split us up."
Then a bottle shatters at my feet and suddenly the ground is on fire.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Stella
The bandits reminded me of spiders, the hotel a web, and them just waiting inside for unsuspecting victims to become entangled in it. Now they're more like wolves, hunting us, the scent of my blood filling their nostrils.
The Gas Man doesn't remind me of a spider or a wolf. He reminds of a green heron. I learned about them in school. Birds that will drop pieces of food, like bread, on the surface of water so that they can attract fish. Once the fish come up to inspect the crumbs, the heron will swoop down and snatch them up.
There's no doubt in my mind this is what the Gas Man is doing now. We're the fish, fuel's the bread, and he's the heron. Now it's just a matter of waiting until he tries to swoop.
It shouldn't be long. Ever since we stepped in here he's held that creepy smile on his face. I thought he would drop it once Logan and the others left, but no, it's still there, the corners of his mouth beginning to twitch with the effort now. I give a sideways glance to Rocket but her attention is focused on him. I don't know what our plan is. Wait until he makes the first move? Overpower him now and then shout for the others to come back while they're still nearby?
Rocket must have some sort of plan since she's the one that agreed to us staying here, so I decide to wait for her signal. For now the two of them seem content on keeping up pretenses, no vague threats filtering through the friendly conversation they're having. I wonder if he thinks we're completely oblivious. His acting isn't winning him any awards. There's definitely something hiding behind his smile, I'm just not sure if it's dangerous.
"Would that interest you as well?" he asks. The question is directed at me, but I've been so busy analyzing everything that I have no idea what he's asking.
"Would what?" I ask.
"A tour of the museum," he says, flourishing his hands.
I resist the urge to glance at Rocket this time. I don't want to appear too suspicious. But it's a strange offer. It's not like I've never been to a museum before. Although I suppose it'll be a good chance to check the place out, see if he really is alone in here.
"Sounds like a treat."
"Wonderful!" he says. I'm beginning to think that's his favorite word. "I'll just have to ask that you leave your weapons here at the desk."
"Why?" Rocket asks, her voice razor sharp now, a complete switch from the light tone she's been using.
The Gas Man holds a hand out, his smile unfazed by her tone. "I completely understand your hesitation. Only, awhile back, I let a group keep their weapons on them and when I gave them a tour one of the men was carrying a sword. I'm a historian. I love all things old. It's my passion. That's why I set up shop in a museum. But when that young man turned a corner his sword just so happened to catch on one of the displays. It was an accident of course, but what he broke was . . . priceless." He actually looks pained by the memory.
"What if we promise to be careful? My knives are in sheaths anyway," I say. I can feel the netting of his trap beginning to settle over us.
He shakes his head. "I'm afraid I'm not willing to take any risks."
I look to Rocket now. She's frowning, but I can see in her eyes that she’s considering it.
"I'll be leaving my gun here on the desk as well if that makes you feel any better," he says.
It doesn't. But even if we go into the main part of the museum and find several people pointing guns our way, I can't think of what he could possibly hope to gain from us. We have nothing. And while he certainly has some sort of agenda, he doesn't seem demented enough to want to kill us just for the sake of killing. Asking him outright will get us nowhere. He'll do nothing but lie. And while I'm dying to know what his true motives are, I'm not willing to hand over my knives to find out.
"I think we'd rather wait here," Rocket says, "with our weapons."
He frowns at this, a convincing show of disappointment slumping his shoulders. So convincing in fact that it actually has me second gue
ssing if he has ulterior motives after all.
"Alright, what about this," he says, "no knives, but you can keep your bat as long as you hold it against your chest with both hands at all times?"
Again I look to Rocket, my suspicions beginning to build again. He seems a little too eager to get us inside. As if to answer my unspoken question he goes on to explain himself.
"It's just that it's been so long since I've had guests, and I've been working on a new exhibition. Built it from scratch myself. Details everything we know about the infection. I'd love to get your opinions on it." The smile is back on his face now.
If he's willing to let Rocket keep her baseball bat, then I see no difference between being ambushed inside or in the reception area. Plus it would seem that we aren't going to be progressing anywhere in this situation unless we play his game.
"Alright," I say, unbuckling the knives from around my waist and thigh. Rocket's eyes snap to me but I ignore them as I lay everything out on the desk. She doesn't know I have a switchblade tucked inside my boot. Neither does he.
"Wonderful!" he says again – the word and the way he says it is really starting to grate me – then waves us around the wall, past the giant poster of the pharaoh, and into the first exhibition of the museum.
I'm relieved when I find huge dinosaur skeletons and nothing else waiting for us. He starts rattling on about the lifespans and diets of each display we pass. Maybe he really does just want to give us a tour. But the way he speaks is articulated, and I'm inclined to believe that if he does have a trap set, it'll be an elaborate one. So my eyes constantly flick around the room, looking over my shoulder after every step. I try to make it look as causal as possible, like I'm desperate to observe every model and don't want to miss a thing.
Rocket's doing the same, even asking questions when it's appropriate, prompting longer and more detailed explanations from him. He seems genuinely enthused by the fact that we're acting so interested. A nod and a smile is all it takes to spur him on.
