A house stands upon a shady hill

Stepping in gives my bones a chill

The lights fail to go on with the switch

At the kitchen stands an old with

Stirring something in a pot of brew

A black cat doesn't purr, whispers "boo"

"Come sit," she says, pulling out a chair

Her cackle gives rise to my every arm hair

She pours some broth in the bowl for me

Three eyeballs float to the top, can't see

Dashing fast, I race to the creaky door

"Wait," she cackles, "don't you want more?"

     I watched my father’s body dissolve. He had always insisted that the virus was a hoax unleashed by the media, and that it would pass over like any other exaggerated-for-viewership story. He died peacefully, in his worn armchair, as if he had fallen asleep. His body was gone in moments. Dad’s death was just as easy and convenient as we expected, as recounted by friends, family, online videos—a death free from mess, or funeral expenses, or rounding up distant acquaintances for a memorial.

     It was a quiet death, with no remains or evidence—which is why the virus wormed undetected for so long and was so long ignored. There was no hemorrhaging or pain; it lacked the dramatic death throes that we love to watch so much in movies, with the victim's eyes rolling back in their heads and their mouths open in agony, as if their every atom was being crucified. People vanished—all flesh, hair, and bone disintegrating in a moment.

     And then it was winter in June. Leaves disappeared from trees and shrubs, and grass sucked into dirt. Tree branches stretched like desperate hands or exposed human vessels. Everywhere there was cement, industrial skylines indistinguishable from the gray sky; the stone-pallor of corpses in the streets, visible for a second before they crumbled into themselves. People lay where they sank, like toppled trees, as people walked around them in the streets, seconds later the empty space was swallowed by passerby. Entire households woke up together; their laughter turned silent by nightfall.

     During this time, the government broadcasted reassurance, promises of free healthcare assistance and medical breakthroughs. The news was filled with white-coated scientists bustling in pristine labs that looked like Apple stores. Job listings for medical volunteers went up everywhere.

     Most people did not panic. My family and friends discussed the latest disappearances, complained about the lack of fresh food, swapped new recipes involving canned foods and dried legumes. There were whispered rumors of a breakthrough in the labs; something about monkeys. Everyone talked about the virus passing over in time, how the news (“fake news,” our President called it) exaggerated the death tolls for ratings.

     Finally, the president appeared on TV, bedecked in a blue suit and red tie, a flame of color in a charcoal-drawing world. His office’s egg cream curtains, the green tint of the outside world pouring in through the lattice of window panes, the endless oak of his desk, were indicators that the world hadn’t changed. He smiled, he looked fierce and proud, he thanked us for our courage, and stuck out his hands like he was about to grab our shoulders and kiss us, or pinched his fingers and flung them in rhythms in the air—he the conductor; we the faithful orchestra.

     We will come out of this stronger than before and we will prevail, he said lifting a small fist in victory and we roared with him.

     The President broke off his speech, paused and looked beyond the camera, as if taking directions from an aide. We talked in the lull, only going silent when the President released a loud huff of breath before slumping forward on the expanse of his desk, head bowed as if in grave respect to his viewers.

    We waited, nodding and smiling, for the president to rouse himself, to conclude this moment of silence or prayer or whatever it was, congratulating ourselves on the durability of the human race and our country’s ability to rise above this not especially alarming disaster, and we thought of a tomorrow where the sun will rise on a nation of strong people, with color come back to gardens and parks, and leaf on trees again—all of it, an insurmountable testament to life.

     And we waited. We waited. We watched the top of the president's fallen head, wispy blond hair ruffling as if from a breeze. Listened to the clamor of voices and movement off-camera. We watched as the broadcast cut out, replaced by dirty blocks of primary colors—the ‘We Interrupt This Broadcast’ bulletin—but not before the President disappeared, like a curtain opening, revealing the spindly spokes of the oak chair behind him.

She reached a hand to touch him

“No”, she cried, and “Why”

He simply said, “Drawn onward”

Gazing to the sky

He came to her at twilight

Rifle in his hand

“Drawn onward” in his loved voice

Not what they had planned

She knew he couldn't be there

Though he wished to stay

From far, he sent “Drawn onward”

And faded soft away.

I hear them every night, their dead, ragged skin slamming against my bunker door. As each hour of the night passes they only grow louder.

Pound.

Pound.

Pound.

I'm not sure how much more of this madness I can take. Every person I have ever known is out there. Every person I have ever loved is dead. How am I meant to cope with this? I highly doubt the usual stages of grief apply to my situation. Yet even if they did, I don't have the luxury of allowing myself to take time away from the few precious hours I get to scavenge on the surface to deal with such petty things as my feelings.

Maybe this should be my last entry, maybe it's time for all of this to end. Even if I survive, what's it all for? What's left for me out there? There's no way in hell I could come up with a cure for all of those who have been affected, I was just a soldier before all of this. That leaves no chance for me to see my wife again. No chance for me to see my little girl grow up....

Maybe those people, those people who I called cowards for throwing themselves to the undead, maybe they were the smart ones. They could see that there was no redemption for us as the human race. They understood that this was the end. They didn't prolong their suffering by trying to live and survive like I have. I'm not sure, but maybe it's time I opened that bunker door and once and for all ended that dreadful pounding.