I’ve talked with a lot of the people here. They all seem nice. Some of them are crying. It breaks my heart, but in a way it also makes me happy. I can’t really tell why.
Because of all the rain, most of us are here sitting inside the ferry diner. There isn’t any food. The captain made that abundantly clear when we came on board. He told us over the speakers, and told us not ask about it. People asked him anyway. I thought it was pretty funny.
The crew asked about Linus. They wanted to know where he was. Everyone on the ship wanted to thank him for what he did. They talked about how hearing his voice on the radio kept them going. They were all hoping to see him again.
As far as everyone’s concerned, Linus died on the way over here. I told them that he was attacked, and that there was nothing we could do to save him. Some of them asked for details, but I hadn’t thought of them yet so I didn’t say. I don’t like lying to them, but in the end it’s probably all for the best. A lot of people here look up to him. The last thing I want to do is spoil the mood. Maybe if someone asks later on I’ll tell them the truth. But then again maybe not.
Linus is the reason why 52 people are alive on this boat. Compared to that, what good is knowing the truth anyway?
I never believed in God, but I’ve always believed in his purpose. And now more than ever, people need hope. Maybe this will give it to them.
It’s been seven days since I left that bunker. In that time I’ve learned that as ugly as we may be at times, we can be so much better.
That’s a lesson we’ll all have to learn soon enough. Maybe then things will start to change for the better. I don’t know how long it will be until the infection passes. But I’m holding out hope that eventually it will.
As of this entry, I consider this hour to be the start of a new day. 10:27 AM. I’m marking it on the first page of an empty journal. A young girl gave it to me on the ferry. Her name is Britney. She likes playing with dolls, and writing.
I lost my other journal back in the city. But I think it’s just as well. Everything’s going to be different from this day forward. Might as well write it down on a clean slate.
I can see the island getting closer outside. Alcatraz. There’s something awfully poetic about it all. That it was once built as a prison, and that now it’s become a safe haven for evacuees.
I don’t know how long we’ll all have to stay there. But hopefully, sometime in the nearby future, we’ll all get out.
Eventually.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mortimer Jackson is a self-published author living in the underbellies of suburban California, where as a novelist he writes in the hopes of one day joining the ranks of the overpaid, and the overrated. Be on the lookout for his next book, I, Jimmy Cheng, a fictitious autobiography of the author himself. Visit Mortimer Jackson at his website.
Fear of the Dead Page 20
