Doomsday Diaries: Nobody

I.

Dear Diary, tomorrow will mark 50 years since the bombs fell. Chancellor Thurman is preparing for a big celebration. A parade, fireworks, the whole 9. The entire main square is locked down, with artificial air being pumped into the area around the clock. Word even has it that Chancellor Hughes from S-town is making his way through the deadlands to attend. It’s all crap, people dying in the streets are being shoved out of view so that Thurman can show how great his leadership is to the corrupt elites that got him his spot. Rapidly increasing death rates and swarms of murderous insects bringing down buildings be damned. But hey, at least “Humanity’s Last Hope of Recovery”, knows how to throw a party.

Sincerely,

A Nobody from the Past

November 2, 2071

I slide my journal into the front pocket of my backpack, careful not to let it rub too closely against anything else, lest the cover slip off anymore. My hand always hurts after writing in it. I shake out the pain. Even through the sheet covering the window I can see the sun coming up. It’s fine, I didn’t sleep last night anyway. I turn off my small palm light and slide out of bed. As I hit the floor I see Marco still fast asleep, unbothered by the noise I’m making. I slip on a fresh shirt and grab my bag off my bed.

Stepping into the halls of the center, I falter for a moment as I let my eyes adjust to the fluorescent lighting. It’s abhorrently bright; like it is every morning. The hallway is mostly empty with a few of the “Orderliness Managers” (glorified security guards) patrolling the hallways. Though even they look too tired and defeated to truly care. One shoots me a sour look as I begin to make my way to the cafeteria. I expect him to question me, but he says nothing.

The cafeteria has the same story as the hall, just a single OM posted at every wall, a few cafeteria ladies hustling about, and several residents in tattered suits sipping coffee. The smell of day-old sausage and boiled eggs fill the air. When I approach the counter, a red-haired woman flashes a yellow grin at me. She’s one of the nicer ladies here, always has a smile on her face. I don’t understand how she can be so happy all the time, especially working at this dump, but I admire it.

“Morning Ms. June”, I flash a fake smile at her.

“Good morning, son”, she returns a genuine one to me.

She calls me “son” every morning, and while I don’t show it, I cringe inside. It reminds me of my parents, the mother who’s gone and the father who’s missing.

“Any muffins today?”

“There might be a few ready in the back, let me check for you”, and she disappears behind the double doors to her left.

A few moments later she comes out carrying a brown muffin with a white glaze over it.

“Apple Cinnamon”, I said, my mouth salivating.

“Your favorite”, her grin once again beaming out of her mouth.

This is why Ms. June is one of my favorite people still alive in this world. She sees at least a hundred people each day, but still takes the time out to remember my favorite muffin. I begin to scrounge through my bag for some change, but she reaches out for my shoulder.

“It’s on the house”, she says with a wink.

“Thank you so much!”, I exclaimed. This time, she gets a genuine smile out of me.

“No touching!”, a pink-faced OM shouts from the wall to my left.

Ms. June pulls back and shoots me a final soft smile, “Have a good day honey”.

Once again slight internal distress shoots through me at the sound of something so... motherly. “You too Ms. June”, I say as I turn away.

Instead of sitting down to eat as I usually would, I rush out of the cafeteria and through the doors of the center. An OM begins to reprimand me for running but I’m gone before he can stop me. The pink morning sky greets me as I file into the mass of people on the streets. I begin to eat my muffin as I walk, catching a few dirty looks from people as I do. The filth on the street would’ve turned my appetite if my stomach wasn’t already bubbling with excitement. I scarf the muffin down in four bites then begin to walk faster down the street, bumping into people and slipping through holes in the wall like walking formation.

I walk at least an hour before I see Shagruf Pub. Tucked between a barbershop and an office building, it would’ve been almost invisible if not for the neon green sign posted above it. I enter the building to find it alive with people - talking, drinking, dancing, crying, even a table of people trying to coach a woman through labor. Cheaper than a hospital, I guess. From my pocket I pull out the sheet of paper that describes who I’m looking for: Silver hair, feather tattoo on forearm, Inbet eyes.

I scanned the room three times before I saw him. He was tucked away sitting at a small corner table sipping from a dark-colored bottle and observing the life going on around him. Nervously, I approach his table. He motions for me to sit down.

“A-Are you Mr-”

“Just call me Bird”, his booming voice contrasted his rather small demeanor.

I clear my throat, “Okay, Mr. Bird, you said you can tell me what happened to my father”

“The day after he went missing I found this note when I was cleaning out my desk”

He hands me a small plastic bag with a business card inside. I pull it out. The paper is old and worn. On the back it reads: The Truth is in my Heart ~M

“Do you know what that could mean?”, Bird asks as he watches me study the note.

“My heart...my heart...wait a minute”, I paused. “You were shut down after my father went missing right?”

“Thurman cut our funding, he didn’t think we could find a cure without our lead scientist.”

“What happened to the stuff at the lab?”

“It got taken by Chancellor guards. It’s probably at the CT Storage Facility.”

“That’s where his heart is”, I fake a confident look, “I’m sure of it”.

II.

Dear Diary, The air at the center feels different tonight. It’s like lightning is jumping from every wall, through and around me. I’m close to finding out what happened to Dad. I met an Inbet man today and he gave me a note from my dad. Oh, you probably don’t know what an Inbet is, by the time you’re reading this, they’ll most likely all be dead. From Deradictionary: Inbet is a colloquialism for those from the generation born between when the bombs fell and the Detrus virus appeared. Those from this generation are most easily spotted by the presence of both irises and pupils in their eyes, with those born after the virus only having one of the two. So they’re basically just old people. Anyway, if my assumption is correct, the secret behind my father’s disappearance, or maybe even a cure, will be found in his locket, the one he kept at his heart. I believe that it’s at the Chancellor’s storage facility. I convinced Marco to snatch a copy of the building’s blueprints while he’s on the night shift. If I succeed, life for everyone could change forever. If I fail, this’ll be my final journal entry.

Sincerely,

A Nobody from the Past

November 3, 2071

It’s a little after 2 a.m. when Marco drags himself through the door to our room. On his back is his backpack with a peculiar piece of paper hanging from its side. I almost jumped from my bed when I saw it. Wearily, he pulls it from his backpack and slides it into my outstretched hand.

“Thank you so much!”, I shout. The words hurt to say, but I mean them.

“Mhhmmm”, he grunts before falling onto the bed and entering sleep instantly.

I study the prints for about an hour, Marco’s snores from below provide decent white noise to help me focus. Feeling as prepared as possible, I roll the blueprints up and shove them into my bag, rip a sheet from the back of my journal, and write a small note. Pulling the sheet from the window, I bundle the journal and the note together and tie them with one of Marco’s rubber bands. I climb off the bed one final time, taking extra care not to wake up Marco. Silently, I creep out of the room and into the hall of the center. I begin toward the cafeteria before realizing that it’s too early and Ms. June won’t be there. Wiping my eyes, I turn towards the exit. Instead of the usual headache the fluorescent light would give me, something else is there. A longing for the past. I take a deep breath as I exit the door and let the orange of the night sky embrace me.

The sidewalk is nearly empty now. The only movement is vehicles transporting goods to the main square for the festival. The sounds of their engines cloud out the rest of the world, giving any suspicious actions I might take a nice cover. As I approach the warehouse, I slip into an alley to enter a rear entrance I saw on the blueprints. There I find a window, as I step over dirt and debris, I approach it. I wait for a vehicle to pass to break it. Cautiously, I slip through to fall into a dark room. Light seeps through the newly broken window, and I feel my way through the room along the wall. It’s fairly small and I can feel my arms touch each side when fully stretched. If I had to guess, it was a bathroom but I have no time to confirm as I felt around for a gap or door handle that could lead me elsewhere.

I find a door and step into a large warehouse-like space stacked floor-to-ceiling with shelves, each of which was filled with boxes. As I approach the one closest to me, I notice they are labeled: K-234, K-534, L-274, L-418. I pulled out K-534 to make sense of the labels. Inside were various different files and papers, one of which is a letter addressed to Kentrell Center for the Homeless. In the next box, I find several plastic cards and record books bearing the name Leyton Hospital.

Noticing the alphabetical order of the boxes, I try to think back to the name of the place where my father conducted his research. I try to think back to everything he ever mentioned about work and everything that Bird mentioned. Then the lightbulb goes off, and I pull out the card I was given and sprint to find the section marked M. The sound of my feet slamming against the metal floor is loud and I begin to hear rustling off in the corner.

One by one, I check the boxes until I find the one I’m looking for, M-893. In the distance I hear heavy footsteps rushing towards me. Inside are numerous lab supplies, vials, beakers, notebooks. I rifle through them looking for anything metal and take out every non-locket piece I find. As the footsteps draw closer, I put the box down and begin to search with both hands.

I feel my heart jump as my hand wraps around a cold piece of heart-shaped metal. Behind me I hear a deep voice shout, “Freeze!”, accompanied by the sound of steel clicking