Anonymous Journal – a Short Story About a Man’s Last Journal Entry

Journal Entry: Event + 2920 – a Monday (I think)

It’s been about eight years since the aliens came to our planet. Keeping track of time has gotten harder and harder. My journal has become my sanctuary, and really, the only way I’ve been able to keep track of the days, months and years that have passed since they arrived. I keep waiting for that magical Hollywood ending where some scientist, military hero, or heck, I would even settle for a magical talking dog, somehow saves our planet. Unfortunately, that hasn’t happen.

This morning, I took a walk, more like wander, down the streets of what was once considered Philadelphia. I decided to explore what was left of Broad Street today. I can remember sprinting down this street, trying not to be late yet again for work. I miss having that sense of urgency, that sense of purpose, that sense of “being”. I realize now, that I felt alive then. I feel dull now, like a shell of a man that once was, who doesn’t know which way is up or which way is down. As I walked down the street, I found that it’s really not the major sites that I reminisce about the most. It’s the little things, like going over to Joe’s Hoagie shop on Chestnut Street, meeting up with Mike and Steve, and just sharing some time, laughs, beers, and of course, the best hoagies in town. I really do miss those hoagies, but then again, anything is better than what I’ve been eating. You’d be surprised at how much you truly depend on the local grocery store and fast food chain to sustain you. Once those stores were closed, or more accurately destroyed, people turned to eating whatever, and I mean whatever, they could get their hands on. Things that they would have turned their nose up to just a few years ago now seem like gourmet meals.

As I walk out in the open, I’m always mindful to keep a watchful eye on the sky. Attacks come quickly, silently, mercilessly and typically from above. I still carry my grand pop’s old shotgun, and even have a few shells left too. Not that is really matters; it takes a tank to stop even one of those filthy creatures. I keep reminding myself to save one shell though, for the day I just can’t take this anymore. Even as I write this, I still hope to never have to use it though. I may have lost all sense of being, but the drive to survive remains strong in me. That’s the only thing driving me at this point, to just simply survive to see the next sunrise.

Ugh, it’s just begun to rain. In a world without umbrellas, or roofs for that matter, this really stinks. Man, what I would give for an umbrella. I’m sitting on a bench in what used to be 30th Street station, trying to stay under what’s left of the roof. To think, there was a time this place would have been mobbed with people, trying to get to business meetings, vacations or simply trying to get home. Home, that’s an interesting concept, but it’s a concept that’s lost now though.

Now, you just hope to find a place for the night that keeps you semi-dry. It’s quiet out now, and I’ve come to hate the lack of sound. The only thing I hear now is the rain hitting the ground, though I guess that’s better than nothing. In the land of silence, you start to crave noise. What I would give to hear another’s voice. I almost would say that contact with those monsters would be preferable to this silence. No, on second thought, scratch that.

It’s been a few months since I’ve seen another person. At first, when the services shut down and the world was turned upside down, it was dog-eat-dog, and you didn’t want to run into anyone else. As there became less and less of us though, we started to realize the need to work together. Unfortunately, we learned that lesson way too late. I always thought if something happened like this, the countries would all ban together, but that simply didn’t happen. I just think, if the countries could have worked together, for the greater good of stopping those things, we may have had at least some type of chance. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself. I think I’m just looking for someone to blame for all this.

Sitting here alone, to the mercy of my own thoughts, I start to miss what I had and what once was, instead of thinking about what’s important now, to just simply survive the day. I have to stop thinking about the many people I miss, and even Joe’s Hoagie shop for that matter. I have to start to concentrate on something else, anything else, and the cold rain seems like a good option. The partial roof is doing a really bad job of keeping me dry, so I’m really starting to get drenched. I’m going to go over to that makeshift shelter and camp in there. I hate tight spaces, but I think I hate being cold and wet more. I’m going to hunker in and try to get some rest.

I hear some type of commotion going on above, and I think it may be them. Man, just what I need right now. I’m going to just keep writing, and stay hidden. Hopefully they will pass over. I have to stop thinking about the noise and just keep looking at the journal.

I can hear them getting closer. This isn’t my first close call with these things, so I’m just going to stay hidden like always, and hope they pass. Last time, it took them an agonizing 20 minutes or so, but they eventually did move on. I’m just going to remove myself from this, and stay in my last sanctuary, stay within my journal.

They are right on top of the shelter now. I can smell their putrid breath, and feel them shake the make shift shelter as they walk over the roof. If they come in here, I won’t be able to fight them off. In case this turns out to be my last entry, I’m just going to say, for anyone who finds this, please keep on fighting. Please keep on trying to survive and to live on. As you live on, in a way, so do I. Try to keep your sense of being, your sense of purpose. It’s typically one of the last things to go, so hold on tight to them if you still can. I just realized something, I never wrote my name in this journal. My name is…


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