Journal

By Xlibris US

One teacher, his assistant, and thirty students are the only survivors of an unknown apocalyptic event. They must pick up the pieces of their devastated lives amongst the rubble of what's left of the world around them. Together they'll face hunger, the death of each and every loved one, and the uncertainty of their present and future.

This is a story of survival, and what it means to be a family.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499049381

Book preview

Copyright © 2014 by Daniel Flores.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 12/15/2014

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Contents

Part One

Prologue: Thirty Eightday

Twentyday

Firstday

Second Day

Third Day

Sixth Day

Seventh Day

Tenth Day

Twelfth Day

Thirteenth Day

Fourteenth Day

Nineteenthday

Twenty Day

Twentythird Day

Part Two

Twenty Fourth Day

Thirtysecondday

Fortieth Day

Forty Fourth Day

Forty Fifth Day

Fiftieth Day

Fifty First Day

Fifty Fifth Day

Epilogue

PART ONE

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PROLOGUE

THIRTY EIGHTDAY

One of them said it was a thirty eight day today as if today were some sort of holiday, a day to celebrate or at least take note of.

None of the others said anything. Not a laugh, not a sigh, not a groan. There was no acknowledging the statement being done by anyone.

Thirty eight day. The thirty eighth day of this. Somehow it seems both long and short. Not even a month and a half, yet, each day is like drifting hundreds more miles out to sea till land is a distant dot on the horizons, a faint memory in all of our minds.

Thirty eightday. Hooray!

Some days don’t really start. The sun rising visibly in the east is never a given. Eternal fires rage day and night, meaning dawns and dusks are not reliable markers of time. Did yesterday end? Has today begun? The sky is a bit brighter so, I suppose the sun has risen. Behind the fog, the smog, the smoke, ash, and debris filling the sky.

Masks on guys! I announce like a rude mission bell, awakening all but a few of my sleeping orphans. She’s awake. Been awake hours. She rarely makes it through the night. What now passes for the night, that is.

With help from others soon all thirty of them are up, rubbing eyes, scratching heads and backs, yawning. Some still cry. Every morning when they realize where they are and what’s going on. They instinctively raise their masks to their faces, a morning routine they’ve had to do for weeks. After a few scattered fits of coughs, after the other morning routine, boys on this side, girls over there, the day really begins.

Is there breakfast, Mister?, Gabrielle asks, and it just about breaks my heart for the second day in a row to tell her no. She sits back down between Vincent and Hilary, without a word. They’re all awake now. Sitting. Huddled together really. It’s not cold exactly, but the chill of the early morning (and their despair) causes their animalistic attempts at achieving warmth. When they’re all done taking care of their morning intestinal ritual, it’s time to head out.

I wanna ride shotgun! shouts Bin. You had it last week! yells Ivan. What? You heard me! Shut up! Both of you shut up! Mister! You guys are so stupid! Shut the hell up! Fuck you! Hey! Enough! I finally shout. We have lots of new routines.

Finding transportation has been easier lately. Gasoline, too. But, as if we’re heading to their grandma’s house they still love sitting up front for some odd reason. They’ve been through a lot. Eventually, sadly, will they forget they’re still kids? Will I? For now, thirtyeightday, they’re still my kids. My class. And I’m still their teacher.

We continue south, for the simple reason that it’ll be warmer that direction. Not hot, that would be hard to deal with, but warm enough that we can sleep outdoors if we need to, or in the bus. We’ve been going south (literally and figuratively) for about a week now. How we measure success is pretty laughable. We found an overturned mini-van two days ago. No driver. No family. No casualties. Nothing or no one in sight. But there was a flashlight in the glove compartment, some tissues in the center console, and a 12-pack of water bottles in the back. A real bounty! But that water is going fast. We need to find more. It’s time to get off the highway.

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TWENTYDAY

Today’s the day they’ve been bugging about. It’s almost been three weeks. They’re dying to get out of here. Out of this prison. The bunker.

Mister, come on, we gotta go! says Vinny, by far the strongest-willed girl in class. She’s rallied up the boys, knowing their rambunctious behavior will convince me to take them up the stairs and out of here into–

Into what? Who knows? But she’s right. It’s time to go. Time to see what’s left. If anything. Ok, Vinny, relax. I told you we’re going. Hold on.

I can’t stall anymore. We’re almost out of food and water and some of these kids really stink. These cramped quarters