Outside The Illness (A Survivor’s Diary)
By David Emerson
November 21, 2011
It's fucking cold outside.
Found a new house today. It looked pretty much untouched from the street. In fact, this whole neighborhood seems to have been pretty empty when the shit hit the fan last month. I've only seen three other people within a few blocks of here, but none of them are too lively (get it?).
There's something about this house, though. It reminded me of my own home. I think it's the windows.
The doors were locked, but that wasn't much of a problem. The lock picks I nabbed last week got me in the front door. It still takes a while. Guess I need to keep practicing.
Locked the door behind me as soon as I got in (definitely not forgetting to do that again). I checked all the rooms, didn't find anyone. There's kid's toys all over the place.
Found an old leather bound journal in the upstairs bedroom, tossed into the corner of the closet. Only two entries in it, but it looks like the first several pages have been torn out. Last entry is from 8 years ago. I guess the writer decided they didn't like what they had written, tried to start over, and then gave up the endeavor altogether. I'm keeping it for when I run out of room in this notebook.
Took all the pictures down from the walls and placed them in the closet. I feel like less of an interloper when I can't see their smiling faces. I stuck a chair from the kitchen table under the front doorknob. Not sure if that's going to do anything or not, but it always seemed to help in the movies.
No guns. Cheap knives in the kitchen.
The family that lived here didn't keep too much food on hand. There were a few cans of soup (chicken noodle and New England clam chowder), vegetables (green beans and peas), and fruit (pineapple and apple pie filling) in the cabinet, but not much else. Everything in the fridge was disgusting. I did find a bottle of vodka (orange Smirnoff) in the basement freezer next to a nearly empty bottle of Jagermeister. Save for these, the freezer was empty. Ate the clam chowder, and washed it down with the vodka. Got a little drunk. It helped.
I'm going to have to forage again tomorrow, but, as I said, it's fucking cold outside.
Picked a scab on my arm and squeezed out some blood. Still okay on that front.
There's a bookshelf with a ton of books on it here, most of which I've never read. I'm thinking about picking one out and starting to read it, but it seems futile. What if I get started on a book and die before I finish it?