Welcome to Hell

Jesus H. Christ. 

I don't know how else to start what could either be the first of many pointless journal entries, or the last thing I'll ever write. The world I knew and loved died this morning. In many ways, this will serve as my eulogy for it, an obituary for a life I may never again see. 

There's no place for a journalist in the world of the undead. People aren't stopping to read papers or blogs anymore; they're too busy running for their lives. Nobody gives a shit whether Kim and Kanye are still together; frankly, I'm not sure anyone ever really did. But now, we have been reduced, as a species, to our most primal instincts. Somewhere, the Evolutionary Psychologists are laughing it up. All of a sudden, we no longer have any extraneous goals. The entire human race has been reduced to one, singular mission: survival. 

I can't help but play the observer in this God-forsaken mess. It has been my role for nearly a decade, and I guarantee will stay that way until my time here is up. But with nobody reading the news anymore, with no real news to report anymore, the only thing I can do is keep my observations to myself. That may very well prove to be the hardest part. 

I didn't have a family of my own to worry about, and my parents are long gone. I spoke a little while ago to my brother out in San Francisco, and he told me they were doing alright. He, a Lance-Corporal in the Navy, is safe with his family on the base. I, a shitty journalist in Brooklyn, can't even guarantee my front door will stay on it's hinges for more than a few hours longer. 

There's talk that the military will arrive to help extract the living and move them to safe havens, but every book I've read where this type of seemingly implausible thing happens, the military never comes. The whole of society collapses long before such a day ever comes. 

So this is it, the first day of the end of the world. I found myself rereading Richard Matheson's I Am Legend this morning when I finally saw what was happening. I've been hoping beyond hope that the story of Robert Neville's will to survive will keep me going in a time when death finally seems like the only appropriate solution. As long as the bastards don't get the power lines, then I might just be able to survive this. If they do, and the heat goes out along with it, then I'm doomed. Problem is, I'm not so sure that's such a bad thing anymore...