Searching for Iris

January 18th, 1937

My name is Saul Randolph. My dear friend, Edgar Trafton, at last has succumbed to the Human Circulatory turovirus -or as it is better known, the “Red Death.” He had come to my residence so that we might take shelter together from this vicious plague, infamous for its tendency to mutate and adapt. Over the last two years the Red Death had managed to rapidly decimate the global population, inspiring riots and panic as the death toll climbed.

Edgar was a large, muscular fellow, whose appearance had only just begun to betray his age. His black hair and beard had started to gray, and he had beady eyes buried behind a permanent squint and crow’s feet, which glinted in accordance with his natural jolly demeanor. I must express how tragic it is to witness a man of not only such Herculean brawn and will, but infectious positivity, be reduced to a fickle, near-vegetative state by illness before quietly dying.

Having lived in Maine my whole life, it seemed to me that there was no global catastrophe that could affect life here, at least in our rural country. But the virus was efficient both in time and deadliness, such that we too were blighted, and saw our loved ones lowered into mass graves. No time in history has seen such universal woe as this.

My dear friend… not a soul could find a drop of hatred in their heart for the man. Now I feel not but the void his presence had filled. I buried him at the treeline on the far edge of my field, in a knoll, so as to make the nearby lake just visible; the most lovely plot I could manage. In the summer, the afternoon sun would pierce the canopy of oaks and evergreens with spears of gold. But it is winter, and wish as I may, no such divine light would join me for a eulogy. Instead, Edgar’s body must be laid to rest in a hole dug in frozen earth, which I so diligently excavated as deep as I could manage. The winter wind blew its melancholic tune through the boughs of naked trees, seeming to augment my sudden loneliness as I stared silently at the crude marker I had placed for my friend.

January 19th, 1937

I slept little after a dinner of canned goods. I find writing in this journal to be therapeutic in curtailing my anxieties and desolation, and as such, I have elected to continue to record my experiences. Apart from Edgar, I’ve had no Human contact for the past handful of months. Mail stopped arriving, the phones no longer functioned, and the electricity had gone out, leaving the two of us completely blind to the happenings of the world. We dared not venture far, for fear of hostiles and assailants reduced to primitive desperation. But my home, built on acres of family land, seemed impossibly lifeless and bleak now, as I could never have imagined. I fear staying would surely challenge my sanity.

Edgar spoke often of his daughter, whom he adored as well as a great father would. Her name was Iris. She had left to study at a university in Vermont before the Red Death had begun. Returning home was impossible in light of tight travel restrictions. So She and her father corresponded as long as they could, and when they had finally lost contact, it was clear Edgar was left in a state of enduring worry. He would constantly fidget with a cheap, pink, heart-shaped locket he had taken from her room before leaving to stay with me. “It came with a doll I bought for her as a Christmas gift when she was much younger,” he explained to me once. “She wanted it so badly, and I knew it would really make her Christmas. The way her face lit up when she opened it… That’s how I always want to remember her.”

Inside was a relatively recent picture of Iris, which Edgar had painstakingly trimmed to fit perfectly inside the locket. On multiple occasions his anxiety prompted him to go out and find her, to which I urged him to refrain, on account of the dangers. But now that he is forever exempt from harm, I have elected to take it upon myself to find her, for the sake of my friend’s memory, as well as to leave my hollow home.

I loaded my vehicle with as many supplies as I could fit: clothing, food, even some camping materials, among other things. On my person, I will carry a small pack of supplies, as well as the old hatchet that had been hanging unused on the wall of my shed. I have no firearms, and I feel that this is the lightest and most versatile tool in my possession that I may defend myself with, should the need arise. I’ll leave at first light tomorrow.

January 20th, 1937

Today would have been my mother’s birthday. She was easy prey for the Red Death. How I’ve managed to avoid sickness myself, I do not know. In the mirror I could find none of the anterior inflammation associated with the dreaded disease, and from which it got its name. Likewise, I find that I am completely free of chest congestion, confusion, disorientation, or any of the other indicative symptoms. I was healthy, albeit ragged.

It was a dreadfully cold morning when I left. I hadn’t looked upon the familiar local landmarks since holing up, and I was surprised to see that many areas appeared unaffected, apart from a distinct aura of eerie lifelessness and quietude. As I continued west, towards the more developed areas, the state of the current situation became more and more apparent: broken windows, looted stores… even bodies, the products of illness and violence alike. Everything seemed broken and forsaken, abandoned, and always emitting that consistent uneasiness and alien stillness.

I stopped only when absolutely necessary, and only ever in areas that appeared safe, or at least, defensible. So far I have managed to stick to backroads, avoiding the main roads, lest I should have some unsavory encounter with any other survivors. Many roads have been forgiving, since this winter has been light on snow and ice. But I have seen no other living souls, and I fear I may not find a station with any fuel before my tank runs empty.

I’ve parked at one such station, completely devoid of any fuel or food, despite its remote location. I’ve passed the New Hampshire state line, and if I can scrounge enough fuel in my travels, I can expect to arrive at the university possibly the day after tomorrow.

January 21st, 1937

I slept deeply, no doubt as a result of exhaustion from travel and poor rest. I heard nothing during the night from the backroom I selected as my interim bedroom. But upon packing and leaving the station to continue my journey, I was met with the horror that my vehicle had been ransacked, my supplies stolen and my tank evidently syphoned for my remaining fuel. I have not even so much as a bicycle to hasten me westward now, and so I must continue by foot in freezing temperatures.

Snow started falling about noon. The flakes floated gently down to accumulate in a thin blanket of powder. I kept my hatchet always at the ready. As the day grew darker, I started hearing strange sounds occasionally, far behind me, their origin impossible to determine. Some sounds I could distinguish as motor noise, whereas the rest resembled indistinct animal-like exclamations. Without a doubt, these were some of the survivors I feared to encounter, their capacity for depravity I hope never to gauge in person. These were likely the lot to blame for my car, and I could tell there were at least a few of them.

I had to walk awhile in the dark before I came upon a place to rest for the night; a decrepit shed-like structure, but it provided sufficient shelter once I nestled in with my propane heater and sleeping bag. Canned food again for dinner. The noises have ceased.

January 22nd, 1937

I’m making this entry on the 23rd, in the very early morning. I had been rudely awakened and was met with terror to see two rather ghastly men, armed with rifles. They made it clear they wanted my supplies. They told me they would kill me quickly if I cooperated, slowly if not. But as always, my hatchet was at the ready. I struck the closest of my assailants, catching him off guard in mid threat. I swung hard at his throat, freeing my weapon from his flesh in time to repel my other attacker, before he could aim his weapon. I sank my hatchet deep into his skull with a grotesque crunching of bone. He was dead. The first was mortally wounded. And so, I dispatched him quickly, giving him a likewise treatment as his companion. Gore had stained my clothes. It’s a strange thing, to kill the only company you’ve had after such solitude as mine.

They had been traveling in a vehicle whose engine I recognized as the source of yesterday’s motor noise. I searched their bodies, took their weapons. None of the supplies they had I could recognize as my own, but I was more than happy to inherit them -including gas cans. Now I was back on the fast track west. The strange sounds started up again before I left, so I saw to it to put as much distance between myself and the remaining survivors as quickly as possible, as they would no doubt be displeased with my hatchet work.

I didn’t stop until I simply could not go farther, which is why this entry came late. I crossed the Vermont state line, and I will arrive at the university by the end of today.

January 23rd, 1937

There is destruction everywhere out here, being an infinitely more urban area than my hometown. I have not spotted a living thing, yet I still feel threatened. There were bodies and dried blood, maimed machinery, and virtually every window was shattered. Yet all these things exhibited that same distinct stillness and lifelessness as everywhere else I’ve encountered thus far.

I reached the university at long last, in the afternoon. Iris could be anywhere, and I must admit I have no high hopes for her condition. I found the entrance to the main building of the campus, and opened shattered glass doors whose creaking echoed down the dark, clinical interior. For hours I scanned through the rooms, finding no more than toppled furniture and vandalism.

Finally I came upon an office with information on some of the Dean’s list students, which included addresses. Sure enough, amongst the names was Iris Trafton, and the address associated with her name led to an apartment complex within walking distance.

As I went to leave, I was stricken with paralyzing fear: in the direction of where I had hidden the vehicle, I heard those strange sounds, quite similar to the ones I thought I had left far behind, echoing off the buildings and down the street. They must have tracked me somehow, followed me all the way out here. They were calling out for me; they knew I was nearby.

Iris’ apartment was close. I ran there, avoiding the area near my vehicle. I burst inside the building, skipping steps up to her floor, and kicked her door in. quiet. I opened the locket. I held it out in defeat; the body that sat in a chair facing the street-side window, whose wrists and arms were painted in dried blood, indeed, was poor Iris.

It was important to me to make this entry, and here it must end. If I can avoid the detection of my pursuers, I’d like to bring her back, to bury her in the knoll near the tree line.