Is There Anybody Out There

“...I guess it’s like Bukowski said, 'The days run away like wild horses over the hills.' I don’t even know what day it is. To be honest, these days you don’t really keep track. It would be an exercise in futility, and you’d be driven all the madder for it. The act of living itself prolongs your suffering just enough to remind you that hell is a physical place. It’s real. It’s here, wherever 'here' is. This place used to have a name... Wisconsin, I think, back when we used to be a country with nice clean borders. No more borders, no more place names. No more Wisco. No more U.S. of A.

I don’t think this is what John Lennon meant when he said no more countries. He was wrong about so many things. That’s exactly when all the killing and dying started.

I don’t even know why I keep this journal anymore--if that’s what you call a portable mini cassette recorder. [clears throat] Who would listen to it? The last person I came across was over a decade ago, and I killed them. That’s what happened when all the lakes and rivers dried up. The oceans? Whatever’s left of them is poisoned. And forget about rain, if you can call it that--it’s all acid now. The animals died and people literally started eating each other. People, not zombies. People…just being people. Oh, a zombie, right. Well, on TV--back when we had TV--people would watch these things called zombie movies. The idea was that the dead would rise and eat human flesh, or some sort of super rabies would infect people. Those people would spread the disease that wouldn’t just outrate the breeding pace of rabbits, it would put it to shame by turning it upon its ear. At least you can justify mindless flesh eating automatons or a disease. How do you rationally explain cannibalism? [a sigh] I guess you can. All manner of things become justified in the name of survival.

But about the zombies, the opposite came true: The living ate the dead. More often the living ate the living. That’s what that guy tried to do over a decade ago to me. And it wasn’t a disease, just hunger. They say starvation changes a man…I think it just reveals who you are. And he may have been the last, but he definitely wasn’t the first. I used to try not thinking about it, but it became so commonplace, you became numb to it. All of it: the kill-or-be-killed of it all. Thank God I never tried it, eating human remains. I mean, I saw what happened to the people who did; they all went crazy. Something broke in their heads, like their minds were on fire. Their bodies would literally eat themselves too. We have, or should I say, we had (when there was a “we”) a name for it, “The Wasting.”

And here’s the rub, right? You may be asking yourself, where is God in all this? The Big Man upstairs. The head honcho. That’s the thing--I, uh…no longer ask the question. You seen the things I seen...shit no longer concerns me. I learned a long time ago; the world is a dangerous place, and the universe does not care.

Some days are better than others, but as far as today goes, I’ll explain the circumstances and let you decide. I found this house several days ago and found this room underneath the basement. It's what they used to call a bomb shelter. I tried getting out, but the door jammed behind me when I came inside. On the bright side, there are cans of food with what looks like a cat on the faded label. I know that means it’s cat food, but it could literally be a can of cat, and I would still eat it. The fine line between pet and livestock is a sliding scale.

I’m starting to get light-headed. I think back when we had electricity, the air was meant to circulate through a filtration system. The truth is I’m trapped in here. So I’m basically suffocating on my own exhalations. I found a candle and matches, and, although I know better (because I don’t want to burn up all this oxygen), I might as well finish filling this cassette tape as a cautionary tale should anyone ever find my body. I found a diary, too, but it was locked. So I forced it open with a screwdriver. It’s basically an account of the former occupants' last days. He explains that he was worried about the suffering his family would have to go through. He goes on to say that he was a chemist by trade (which makes sense considering he writes in the educated chicken scratch of a medical professional), and, from peach pits, developed a concoction of slow-acting cyanide. With that he also crushed up sleeping pills, put it in his kid’s fruit juice and his flask and his wife’s wine. There was a hollowed out portion of the book with a heart shaped locket with pictures of what was once a beautiful family. Poor bastards. At least they went peacefully.

I found the flask, which seems about a quarter full. But, nah, not my style. It is nice to look at. It's engraved: “To John, from Rex” and it’s got a symbol…ah, the Eagle, Globe and Anchor. John must’ve been a marine. [glass clinks] What's this? A brand new bottle of scotch, what they used to call a fifth - Glen something, 1983. Was that a good year? I dunno, long before my time.

Anyways, I tried the door, forcing it with a crowbar, but no luck. So feeling as though I’ve exhausted all my options, I can't let this fifth go to waste. Bottoms up. Then another. Cheers. Then another. Prost...repeating until the bottle is empty. I will say this, at least the man had good taste in whisky. Or maybe it’s just been that long since I had a drink.

My eyes feel so heavy, my head too. I think I’ll blow out the candle and lay down.

Hold on, I hear something...but my body feels so heavy. 'He-Hello? Hello! I’m in here! Is there anybody out there? I can hear you! Answer me, goddamnit!'”