[Vexed]

(Journal Entry 1)

I was an unbelievably freakin' successful talent agent before TSHTF. I had a house in the hills, shiny new Lexus SUV with air conditioned leather, a phat group of A-list contacts, and one trophy girlfriend after another. My real friends (whatever that meant in those days) were all super jealous. I had all the accoutrements. Marble driveway for my pad. Jacuzzi in the back. Art Work. Antiques (Real Ones!). Flat screen plasma everything. Expensive shoes. Expensive suits. You name it; I had it tailored.

At work, my staff knew better than to question my authority. They knew who the decision-maker was; whose name was on the big office; who wrote out their checks; whose ass they should kiss. And, at the time, I never hesitated to hold my well toned personally trained behind up in the air for their puckered lips every chance I got. I saw them looking at me all the time when they didn't think I could see them. I knew they needed someone like me to accomplish all the things they never would. They wanted my money, my power, my women, my life. I saw envy in their eyes. Now things are different, but I remember those days. I remember what I don't have anymore. I hope I have been honest about who I used to be.

I live in a small flat now, although I suppose that is a fairly flattering term. Its just that whenever I think about where most of my friends have ended up, I feel extraordinarily lucky, and I owe at least some of that luck to this small sanctity. There's no electricity, no running water, and if I have to take a dump there's a bucket that leaves rust stains on my ass. I'd like to say that my flat consequently reeks of shit, but the truth is that I eat so little these days, there's never enough actual digestion to produce a stench. My belt has already been taken in three new notches, and the small mirror I keep for shaving shows a different man than I remember. I see a lot of rats and large cockroaches, but I have still been unable to keep them down, no matter how hungry I am; no matter how I try to prepare them. I suppose that makes me weaker than most.

My flat is in the basement of an old warehouse building in a district of the city known, even before the collapse, as a dangerous place. My room is about 80 odd-angled square feet, and tucked between an old storage area (long ago looted) and a large room filled with old mechanical equipment that could have been used for just about anything. The nice thing about my home is that the only way to get in is through a small hatch I have cut from the storage room. With some effort I figured out the best way to hide it was by attaching a narrow lightweight cupboard to a swinging door. That way when I come and go, the cabinet swings in and out, providing camouflage against the Outside world.

I don’t see Outsiders much anymore but when I do they are seldom friendly, seldom unarmed, and seldom alone. That's why as a general rule I mind my own business during the daylight hours, and only venture out at night, under cover of darkness. You might guess that leaves me with a lot of time to waste. And you would be right. Perhaps that’s why I have started this journal. I am wasting time. Long hours of paint peeling time…

Sometimes I sit in the mechanical room next door to my flat playing around with miscellaneous parts. Connecting nuts to rods to bolts to whatever. My knowledge of machines is minimal but my patience, by necessity, is inexhaustible. Nonetheless, the metal pieces strewn all over the floor in there could be made of some alien alloy and I would never be the wiser. I sometimes think, almost with amusement now, how the room next door could be filled with invaluable equipment that might somehow be capable of making life easier, but neither looters nor myself would ever know the difference. Oh, the irony…

In my trips Outside I usually find tons of electronic crap that has been left to rot; stereos, TVs, DVD players, mostly left untouched in otherwise heavily looted homes. Most are still in the middle of family rooms and bedrooms, on pedestals of oak and metal; haunting reminders of a previous life. Want your MTV? Forget about it. Want a hair dryer? I could locate one in under ten minutes. Not that I could dry my hair though, which is just the point.

Progress has come to a standstill. Or maybe we are going backwards now. The picture isn’t clear. But who has the stamina to care anymore? Who has the time to see beyond their own hide? Not me. In this place, where dead cars are homes, heirloom seeds and canned goods are currency, and food is wealth, all I really have is the prayer that existence is better elsewhere. Otherwise, why go on at all?

My head spins when I think about how Technology was going to save us; how Technology was supposed to save us: how Technology was in the process of saving us, when the bottom was literally ripped out from under our feet. Ironic that there seemed to be answers even as civilization crashed all around us. Strange and sad how mankind seemed to be its’ own worst enemy. How do I describe the feeling, after years of going nowhere without a cell phone or being disconnected from the Net for too long, how all technology seemed to impart to me now was a deep feeling of weakness?

To be sure, these days, I measure my possessions by what I can reasonably carry if I need to make a fast escape. I will assume any real Survivor will tell you the same: The essentials of life are to be kept close on the body; beneath various layers of clothes, stitched into hidden pockets, or stored in whatever passes for shoes. Waterproof matches. Sharp knife. Can opener. These are among the things that never drift too far from my grasp. They are immeasurably necessary for my continued existence on this planet. Who would have ever guessed? Not me. Definitely not me. Not too long ago I would have been pissed off if my order was taken incorrectly at some B class restaurant. How times have changed. How I have changed. Ever gotten in a fistfight over a can of chicken noodle? I have, and I am proud to say I won.

The city streets are no longer available for a friendly stroll. Want a hamburger? Need a haircut? Want to grab some roses for the wifey? Not anymore. The streets are a dangerous place. Prosperity of near any kind has been extinguished. Where once the roar of Internal Combustion Engines owned the road, now the endless concrete is just a scab over the life-giving earth below. Where once the towering buildings on all sides would have provided light and safety, now only darkness prevails. Where once law and order was manifest, now only dog-eat-dog remains. Pain sings a continuous song in public. Muffled wails and cries, echoes of far-off screams slice the air. The futility and frustration of existence is like a thick cloud one must cut through.

Seeing death, recognizing the smell, always bare inches ahead of its foul claws, that is my life now.

I do not believe that physical pain can drive a person insane. Physical pain can even be a good tonic. But where Survivors, like myself, are witness to so much suffering, I can assure you with conviction: You can be in perfect health, but there is no possibility of remaining completely together when hell is alive and crawling on all sides of you. As I said the streets are a dangerous place, but they are also an endless list of sorrows. Fight or Weep, that is the only question left to answer.

Generally, I spend just a few hours a week searching for supplies. When I am on the Outside, I imagine myself to be a cat, maintaining the slinking agility of a feline on the prowl. I always keep the same path that has served me with the least conflict. I always hold my ground cautiously until any perceived threat passes. I challenge no one. I stick to myself. But if you corner me, I will tear your eyes out.

Curious how I spent the greater part of my youth learning to be the center of attention, only to find myself in a scenario where the art of concealment is such a profound requirement. And please, make no mistake, I have learned to be aware of my element, long before my element is aware of me. Remaining undetected by folks training their own ears to hear is heavy business. I don’t take it lightly. I’m a shadow’s shadow.

However, even more important than not being seen when you’re on the Outside is having a place to go. You don’t make a trip outside just to hang out, pick up chicks, and score a Slurpee. Bad things happen when you just wander around. Bad people seem to be attracted to folks that don’t seem to know where they are going. A real Survivor knows it is best to have your intentions set long before you head out into the night.

On this particular moonlit evening I am gathering water and scouting out an additional water source. I have 3 empty two-gallon milk jugs with twist-on lids and the only thing on my mind, running over and over, is an assortment of old Desani and Evian commercials. Mountain spring water, the words make me drool. I can see the newly fallen snow, the waterfall in the distance. I can remember thirteen brands of water in any convenience store, in any town, on any corner, back in the day. Tonight I am just hoping for one brand: the drinkable kind.

(Journal Entry 2)

Things didn’t go right last night. Big surprise.

When things get rough I tend to let myself think about what I truly I miss: People saying “have a nice day” even if they don’t mean it, people working together in offices, people having dinner together, people sharing stories, people partying, people falling in love and bickering and strategizing and organizing their little plans. People living. I savor little memories from my past life – occasions when nothing seemed to matter; when everything fit comfortably and everyone was there, and no one wanted to leave; when time would sometimes stop just to give you a second to exist. Nowadays there is no time to exist, no time to take meaning, or believe that you mean something. It is fight or weep. It is paint peeling or people dying. There is nothing in between.

I have just finished closing the wound with a hot metal rod and half a bottle of the shittiest whisky these lips have ever touched.

When the pain subsides, I will write some more.

[Ayoob]

Very goth.

[jato]

No preparation + crisis = victim.

[lowem]

Doomer porn. Appreciate the effort, though.

On the other hand, cornucopian porn can be found at almost any ol' roadside newspaper stand ...

[The_Toecutter]

I want more. I love doomer porn.

[k_semler]

Write more please! This could turn into an interesting furture tense novel. I would read it. I like the intro anyway.

[Specop_007]

Heres to hoping........

[Dukat_Reloaded]

That is not Doomer porn. A real doomer doesn't go from Riches to poverty. A real doomer goes from Poverty to Greatness. He becomes a leader, he's wise to the art of survival and teaches the good word like a budda to people struggling wherever he goes. He travels apond travels, defending the weak and helpless while destorying the evils that enslaved them. Villages greet him and know of him offering their finest peasant virgins and toast to him at the head of the table at feasts in his honour. He becomes a great man who changes the world.

[DerelictOverlord]

Throw in a little bit of twisted, malevolent Hunter Thompson humor and it'll be a best seller.

[Vexed]

(Journal Entry 3)

I haven’t written in some time. Not that anyone out there cares. Or is listening. Or even knows I exist. In the last couple of months I have spoken to very few people. However, even distanced from the rest of humanity (if you can still call it that anymore), I have witnessed things I would never have believed could occur. If it is possible, the situation Outside has become even more terrifying.

Three days ago, the last time I left my flat to find food, I saw something that I must record. This is not for posterity, but because certain experiences demand that you spit them out, chew them over, and try to digest them. Otherwise they fester. They corrode your insides until all you know are their dark shape. And that just won’t do. My survival in this devastated world depends on focus. I cannot let the pain take over.

While scouring a shattered sporting goods case in a former discount store, likely a Wal-Mart (but who knows, the front of the building had been torched to near oblivion; leaving the name a mystery, but lighting most of the interior with soft moonlight), I heard strange noises coming from the other side of the store. Having previously secured my bounty for the evening in a very lovely Prada bag, which I had found in the steely clutch of a very conservative-looking dead lady, I decided to creep closer. Perhaps I was just feeling braver than usual, or more curious than wise, but for some reason I had to know what was going on. The noises were so very uncommon, like the sound one might associate with better times, a low-key drunken dinner party perhaps.

As I approached, keeping to the shadows of the huge rusting shelves, a spicy scent began to fill the air. My stomach instantly pulled in on itself. Hunger never leaves a person for long in this land, but generally you can stifle it beneath several layers of dread. In the presence of such a wonderful smell though this was not possible. I had to force myself to remain cautious, and not sprint towards the savory smell wafting through the air. Was it dog? Cat? Had this unseen group somehow acquired a chicken? This was most definitely not rat. No, it was something else.

When I was fairly positive that I was about 2 aisles away from the “dinner party,” I began to climb up a shelving unit careful not to give away my position. I figured that if I could get up high enough I would have a good view of the proceedings. The voices were sharp and excited but still indistinguishable. The spicy fog became thicker the further I ascended. My heart was pounding. Whatever was being cooked must have been thoroughly doused with some sort of ingredient to enhance aroma and flavor. Was that black pepper? My senses were going wild.

At the top of the shelf, there was about a five foot span to crawl across before I could peer down. Inching my way along through the built-up grime, trying not to shake the unit too much, I wondered what I would be doing right now if the proverbial shit hadn’t hit the proverbial fan. Would I be enjoying a cocktail? Watching TV? Maybe making love to a beautiful woman? (I can’t imagine an ugly woman anymore.) Or perhaps just sleeping in the splendid warmth of my king-size bed? These were impossible questions to answer, and more of an escape from the delicious fragrance now surrounding me, than real questions.

At first, when I reached the other side of the shelf, I was blinded for a moment by the sudden light. As my eyes adjusted, I realized I was looking at an open area where a small fire had been built. Strips of meat were hanging from a steel rod making a pleasing sizzle as they cooked. Four people, shrouded in shadows, were sitting around the flames happily gnawing on tidbits. I was instantly jealous. There appeared to be more than enough for everyone! What kind of luck these folks must have had! It took all of my will power not to jump off the shelf and join them.

I watched them for couple of minutes hoping that I might be able to wait out their feast and forage for any remnants they left behind. But then something happened that will forever be seared into my mind’s eye. One of the men (there were three men and one woman) went to carve off an additional slice for himself, and as he lifted the meat into the air to get a good angle he brought their dinner completely into my view. I realized he was lifting a pair of severed arms that were connected by a coat hanger or other such wire to the cooking rod. Instantly, I realized the other hanging meat was also a pair of arms. But, why were they so small? Child’s arms? Suddenly it was all clear. Too clear. I could just make out the silhouettes of the hands, the fingers curled up in loose fists over the flames.

I forgot where I was and nearly backed off the shelving. Mere inches from the fall, I regained my composure, closed my eyes, and thought about cocktails, beautiful women, and warm beds.

[Zardoz]

Woof. That one made me a little dizzy. Good job.

[SinisterBlueCat]

I like your writing style well enough, but I think the story is moving to quickly and you pulled out your big gun to soon...meaning, I like the eating the little kid thing, and the discription was well done, but it needs more of a building up to. And more than that...how will you top it?

this would be a cool book idea..you should make a go of it!

[0mar]

fap fap fap fap fap fap fap fap fap fap

[smallpoxgirl]

excellent writing. Keep it coming.

[MacG]

$this->bbcode_second_pass_quote('SinisterBlueCat', 'I') like your writing style well enough, but I think the story is moving to quickly and you pulled out your big gun to soon...meaning, I like the eating the little kid thing, and the discription was well done, but it needs more of a building up to. And more than that...how will you top it?

this would be a cool book idea..you should make a go of it!

[katkinkate]

Do rats and dogs taste foul, really? Or are you just assuming so because they are not thought of as food by our culture? Has anyone here tasted them?

They eat dogs in Asia, as well as lots of other stuff. Deep fried spiders and jellyfish.... Traditional chinese food is the quisine of a people who are used to famines. They know when you're hungry almost anything can taste OK.

[smallpoxgirl]

Dog isn't bad. What I've had was a bit fatty and it was just a hint "doggy", but I've definitely had venison that had a stronger flavor.

I haven't had occasion to eat a rat yet. Probably what they tasted like would depend a lot on what they've been eating. I suspect that after a few weeks of being under nourished, a barbeque rat would smell like filet mignon.

FWIW it's very important to cook any carnivorous or omnivorous creature thoroughly because they can cary trichinosis.

[TommyJefferson]

Needs some running gun battles and a Randall Flagg character.

[smallpoxgirl]

First of all, this guy needs to interact with some other humans. Loners don't do well in crisis situations. Stress will cause even random strangers to start to band together in little groups. He needs to find his little group. Then he needs an adventure. Maybe he treks up to the Central Valley to try and find some agricultural work. Maybe he tries to make it to the forests up north with clean water, game, fish, etc. Right now he's just waiting to die. He's got to figure out how to make a life for himself.

[Kickinthegob]

$this->bbcode_second_pass_quote('The_Toecutter', 'I') want more. I love doomer porn.