I never would have married you if I knew that I saw only a part of you. I knew the person that you showed to strangers. I saw you polished and perfect, the face you presented to the world. You lived life like a job interview, hiding the flaws and highlighting your talents. I wanted someone whose flaws I could love, yet you showed me none. I had to search for them on my own, and what I found was not to my liking. I never would've married you if I had known you were such an actor. 

Dear Stranger,

I've titled the previous entries in this journal as 'Dear Diary', but I doubt I will ever have the time to read them again. You are now my reader, or perhaps this book will just be lost like humanity is. Perhaps it will be an antique, a relic of a bygone era and primitive people. If we survive, that is.

I'm sitting in a dumpster and writing this. It's the one place they can't smell me. I'm lucky that I'm surrounded by strangers. Many of the humans are going mad from seeing the carnage in the streets, their family and friends butchered with the bare hands of other people. 

You might find this a hundred years from now, or ten seconds after I die. I don't know, but I want to help you. If you're wondering about the missing pages, they're the ones that were too tear-soaked to be legible. I'm okay now, and I have information to write down. There isn't much else to do. 

It started as a virus, in the heart of Nairobi, of all places. It spread before they knew it existed, before they could establish a quarantine or devise a cure. One day, and a person became a monster.

Stranger, I was responsible for researching the afflicted, and I know all our hope lies in their death. The armies are readying the nuclear weapons and the tanks, but those of us in the streets know it's pointless. We can't fight a war where an ally could become an enemy any second. 

The most dangerous time is the few hours in which they feel hunger and human emotion both. Their survival makes them desperate, and those are the ones that will be the death of us all. Monsters, they don't give us guilt when we shoot them down. But men pleading for their lives, women hugging their children? We faltered, and failed. 

If you find this diary before the end of this pandemic, I wish you a long life. I wish that you continue this story, passing it to the next stranger. I wish that you shoot straight and true and that you don't become one of them.

If you find this diary after humanity has regained it's position, read all that I've written, about the world that I knew until it came to a halt. Remember the fragility of our species, and forget our hubris.