July 5, 2023
Dear Journal,
We left just before sunrise.
The engine roared to life like a wild animal—noisy, angry, too loud for comfort. Every bird within a mile scattered. I felt it in my chest, a deep thrum of impending danger. Still, we drove off, stuffed in the back of that old Chevy pickup with Clara bundled in Nora's arms and the rest of us clinging to the sides like loose luggage.
Whitfield disappeared behind us in minutes. No one looked back.
We made it five miles before we hit our first roadblock. A collapsed overpass, right where Route 71 should have carried us west toward the outskirts of the city. Concrete split like cracked bone, a tangle of rebar and rusted cars littering the descent.
Marcus got out first. "We can't drive through this."
Naomi climbed onto the hood, scanning the treeline. "We backtrack two miles, take County Road 17. It'll snake around and merge back."
We all nodded—except Nora. She looked down at Clara, who'd started coughing again. A sharp, dry bark that shook her tiny frame. I saw the fear in Nora's eyes then. Not of the undead, not of the journey.
But of time.
We took the detour.
County Road 17 was narrow, hemmed in by thick brush and abandoned vehicles. At one point, we passed a school bus on its side, windows shattered, dried blood staining the yellow paint. No bodies. Just the suggestion of a story we didn't want to imagine.
Naomi leaned out of the passenger side, crossbow ready.
"Eyes on the ridges. If something's stalking us, this is the place to do it."
We made it ten more miles.
That's when the smell hit us.
Rot. Thick and wet. Like meat left out in the sun too long. Marcus slowed the truck, and we crested a hill to find the source:
A blockade.
Not military. Not FEMA.
People.
A string of cars formed a barricade across the road, reinforced with scrap metal and barbed wire. Human skulls mounted on pikes lined the edge, bleached by the sun, mouths open in silent screams.
"Turn around," Nora whispered.
"Too late," Naomi muttered.
Movement.
Six figures emerged from the brush, faces covered in grease and dirt, weapons drawn—machetes, pipes, a homemade flamethrower. One of them tapped the truck's hood with the flat of his blade.
"Visitors."
Marcus kept the engine running.
"We don't want trouble," he said. "We're just passing through. Headed west."
The man smiled. His teeth were stained red.
"Everyone's headed west. Question is—what you bringin' with you?"
He pointed at the back of the truck.
Naomi didn't wait.
She vaulted out of the cab, blade in hand, and pressed it to the throat of the nearest one.
"Try it."
Everything paused.
The standoff lasted maybe ten seconds.
Then another man, older, stepped forward. His voice was calmer, quieter, but carried weight.
"Let them go."
The first man frowned but stepped back. The older one approached Marcus' window.
"You don't want to go to South Station," he said.
"We have no choice," Marcus replied.
"Then you'll learn the hard way."
He dropped a bundle into the back of the truck—canned goods and two water bottles—and waved us on.
That was two hours ago.
We're pulled over now, parked in an abandoned rest stop near an old gas station. Clara's breathing has worsened. Nora's giving her small sips of water between doses of crushed aspirin. It's barely helping.
Naomi's pacing the perimeter. Marcus is working on refueling the truck with gas siphoned from a wrecked van.
I'm writing this from inside the bathroom stall, hiding from the look in their eyes.
They all want to believe we're heading toward salvation.
But I keep thinking about that man's warning.
"You'll learn the hard way."
There's something else, too.
The radio—remember the emergency one from Gilda's?
It's changed.
Same signal, but now the voice sounds… different.
Distorted.
Glitching.
"South… safe… come to—stati0n… we… wa1t…"
It repeats. Louder each time.
Almost like it knows we're listening.
Yours in doubt and dread,
J.K.