The Lost Journal (A Secret Apocalypse Story)

by James Harden

There was a situation about five miles outside of the township of Woomera at a small, privately owned opal mine. It was a father and son operation. The mine had been in the family for a couple generations.

  Apparently there was a tunnel collapse or something. Gordon, Franco, Drake and I were to escort a rescue team down into the opal mine.

  I thought this was going to be a simple assignment. In all honesty, I thought maybe the father had bumped his head on a rock or maybe someone had broken their arm. I thought we’d be in and out in no time.

  And besides, the actual rescue guys would be doing most of the work. We were just there to supervise.

  I was wrong.

  As soon as we arrived at the small entrance to the mine I quickly realized it wasn’t going to be a simple job.

  Leading up to the mineshaft was a trail of bloody footprints. And right next to the entrance was a dead horse. It was a mess. The horse was lying on its side. It’s stomach; its entire mid-section had been ripped open. Its guts had spilled out on the ground. It was completely covered in flies.

  The stench of it was incredible. Franco threw up. One of the rescuers was gagging, trying to hold it in. I had to look away and take a few deep breaths.

  "Gotta be wild dogs, right?" Drake said. "Dingoes or wolves or something?"

  No one answered him.

  The horse had been carrying some saddle bags across its back. The bags contained large rocks. At first glance the rocks were rough and plain looking. But upon closer inspection we could see bright green and blue sections, as well as red and violet. They were like veins running through the rock.

  It was raw opal.

  "Jesus Christ," one of the rescuers said. "That would have to be worth thousands. You don’t just leave that kind of find lying around."

  Bloody foot prints led towards the entry to the mine. Dark blood. It looked black against the dusty, red ground. Thick. Coagulated. Brown chunks of horse flesh were scatted on the ground near the mine shaft as well. Then again, maybe it was human flesh. I don’t know.

  It was a puzzling scene.

  "Has anything like this ever happened before?" Gordon asked the rescue guys.

  "No way. Nothing like this."

  "Any reports of wild dog attacks?"

  "Years ago we had some reports of dingo attacks. Back when their population was getting out of control. But I don’t think there’s ever been a case where a pack of dingoes have brought down a horse. They wouldn’t even bother. This doesn’t make sense."

  Gordon told Drake and Franco to remain up top. Keep an eye out for any wild dogs or dingoes or whatever. Gordon and I were going down into the mine.

  The rescue guys told us to take our packs off because the tunnels were narrow. They led the way and Gordon and I followed them in. The entry to the mine was a small, narrow tunnel about three feet in diameter. It led straight down into darkness. Hand and foot holds were fixed to the rock, like a ladder built into the wall.

  I don’t consider myself to be claustrophobic but as I descended down that tiny, vertical tunnel, I started to freak out. It was a good thing the rescue guys told us to take our packs off. There’s no way we would’ve fit.

  We climbed down to a depth of about fifty feet. When we reached the bottom I discovered that the tunnels of the mine were just as narrow as the entry shaft. They weren’t even high enough for us to stand up properly.

  We had to move around hunched over.

  The rescue guys turned their hard-hat torches on. Gordon and I did the same with our rifles.

  It was then we noticed the pile of flesh and blood at the foot of the entry shaft we had just climbed down. Again, it was hard to tell if the flesh was from the horse or if it was human.

  To my left there was a clump of hair and some blood on the wall of the entry tunnel. And something else that looked like a graft of human skin. I got the impression that someone had fallen down the mine shaft and cut themselves up pretty bad.

  The rescuers had never been down here so no one knew where to go, or where to even start looking. I was about to call out to see if anyone answered. But I stopped myself. Would calling out cause one of these tiny tunnels to collapse? I did not want to find out.

  In the end, we followed the blood trail.

  As we moved along I noticed some marks in the tunnel walls. I looked closer. They were marks caused by bullets. Small arms fire. Had there been a shoot out down here?

  We moved slowly around a bend in the tunnel. Gordon took the lead and I followed closely behind. Up ahead we found a revolver lying on the ground in a pool of blood. It had been fired recently. Six empty bullet shells lay on the ground next to the revolver. The barrel was still warm.

  Further ahead was a shotgun. Gordon moved ahead and picked it up.

  "Hasn’t been fired," he said.

  He unloaded the rifle, placing the shells in his pocket. He handed the weapon back to me.

  We continued further, deeper into the mine. After a couple of minutes I was completely disorientated and the feeling of claustrophobia intensified.

  At that point I sort of forgot why we were down there. I was just hoping we weren’t lost. I really wanted to get the hell out as soon as possible. I did not want one of the tunnels to collapse. The walls were solid rock. We’d be crushed with no hope of survival.

  Gordon held up his hand, motioning for us to stop.

  The blood trail ended.

  "What is it?" one of the rescuers asked from behind.

  "Blood trail ends here," Gordon answered as he shone his torch at the dusty ground.

  The other rescue guy said something about how maybe whoever had been bleeding had bandaged up their wounds. Apparently mines like this have first aid kits located throughout the tunnels.

  I was about to ask him if that was the case then where the hell was the first aid kit? But then I thought I heard something coming from further down the tunnel.

  A scream.

  I held my breath and strained my ears. Did I just imagine it? Was the scream real? But then I noticed everyone was silent.

  We had all heard it.

  "Ah, was that a scream?" I asked.

  No one answered me.

  A few seconds later we could hear moaning. Someone was in pain. Someone was trapped down here, probably bleeding to death.

  We continued forward, hunched over, moving as fast as we could in the confined area. We turned down another bend but then Gordon came to an abrupt stop. I actually ran up the back of him.

  The mine broke off into a fork but they were both collapsed in. It was a dead end.

  We quickly searched the collapsed pile of rocks for any gaps but there were none.

  The rescuers lowered their heads. This was bad news. There was no hope for the miners.

  I’m not sure what had happened. Why was the revolver fired? Who was doing the shooting? What were they shooting at? Why was the shotgun dropped, fully loaded? Why would you bring a shotgun down into a confined mine like this?

  Or any weapon for that matter.

  And what the hell happened to the damn horse?

  We sat there in the fork of the tunnel for awhile. We listened for any noises. Any cries for help. But there were no sounds at all.

  The rescuers had some equipment, heat sensors to pick up human body heat. And sound equipment that could pick up and faint noises, like cries for help or breathing. But they found nothing. There was no sign of life.

  After a couple of hours we gave up hope. All we knew was that something bad had happened.

  A struggle.

  Maybe an argument over the opal find?

  I don’t know.

  But something bad had gone down. And then the tunnel had collapsed, probably crushing both the father and the son.

  It was tragic. But there was nothing we could do.

  And now I’m hoping, praying for more days of boredom.

  January 21st – Outbreak.

  Things are starting to get weird. Yesterday it was the incident in the mine.
And now today. Wow. I mean, I really have no idea what the hell happened today. I’ve tried to think it through logically but I can’t.

  Everything that happened keeps playing over and over in my head. I have to be up in three hours, but I can’t sleep. It’s just so messed up. Even more messed up then that damn mutilated horse carcass we saw yesterday.

  We were on patrol in the town center. We were the closest team to the incident so we were ordered to go and investigate.

  Apparently there was a robbery at the local doctor surgery. Command suspected it was probably someone trying to rob the joint for pain meds.

  When we got there the receptionist was crying. She was hysterical. She was pointing at the back room. It was the room they used for minor procedures, like giving shots and removing stitches and stuff like that.

  Apparently there was a patient in there who had an abscess. Apparently that patient had gone bat crap insane.

  "He was about to have it lanced," she said.

  "Lanced?" Franco asked.

  "Yeah. The abscess had become inflamed and swollen. The guy was complaining of fever and body aches. He was shivering. Doctor Grant assumed it was because of the infected abscess."

  From behind me, Drake asked, "What the hell is an abscess?"

  "It’s like a boil," she answered.

  "Oh, right. Yeah, I knew that."

  "He actually had a few of them," she continued. "A couple on his arms and some on his torso. To lance them, you inject a local anesthetic into the boil and wait for the area to become numb. Then you make a small incision with a scalpel and drain the puss and the fluid from the wound."

  "Gross," Franco said.

  "But something happened. I heard screams. Not just from the patient but from Doctor Grant and the nurse as well. Something is wrong. I know there are a lot of rumors circulating about the virus outbreak in the immigration center. Do you think this is related?"

  The receptionist looked scared. Actually she looked down right terrified. Her hands were shaking.

  We told her not to worry. Just relax. Just breathe. We told her that everything would be all right.

  We were lying.

  We moved over to the back room. The receptionist had jammed a chair up against the handle. Gordon moved it out of the way and knocked on the door. He called out to Doctor Grant. But there was no response.

  "Is this door locked?" Gordon asked the receptionist.

  She shook her head.

  Drake moved up alongside Gordon. They didn’t say anything. They gave each other a quick look and Drake gave a slight nod. They didn’t need to say anything. They know each other so well, it’s like they can read each other’s minds. Gordon opened the door and Drake stepped into the ‘operating’ room with his rifle shouldered and ready.

  We all followed him in.

  And here’s where it gets weird. And messy.

  In the far right hand corner of the room was the patient. He was leaning over Doctor Grant, who was lying down on his back.

  The doctor was lying down in a massive pool of blood. The patient was kneeling in the blood, leaning over Doctor Grant. He was oblivious to the mess.

  I can’t be totally sure but it looked like the patient was digging his hands into the doctor’s torso, into his stomach. And it looked like he was shoveling the contents of the doctor’s torso into his mouth.

  But I can’t be sure.

  The reason I can’t be sure is because I couldn’t see clearly. And because it sounds so crazy. A patient, a person, eating another person’s intestines? There has to be some other explanation right? There just has to be.

  The patient heard us enter the room. He turned to face us. Blood stained his mouth, his chin. Flesh was stuck between his teeth.

  He was chewing.

  We were stunned into silence. We stood there for a few seconds, staring blankly.

  The blood was everywhere. It was all over the patient’s face and his chest. He was totally covered in it.

  A few more seconds ticked by. But no one said or did anything. We were definitely in shock.

  There was no way this was a robbery. A junkie looking for some pain meds? No freakin way.

  Gordon took a small step forward. He was about to say something. But then the patient charged at us. Gordon raised his rifle and put two bullets in the patient’s chest and one in his head.

  And here’s another thing I can’t stop thinking about. Gordon shot him in the chest. He shot him in the chest twice! But the patient didn’t react. The bullets tore right through him but he kept coming. He kept charging. It was only after Gordon put a round in his head did he finally drop.

  But he fell forward. Not backwards.

  Usually, taking a point blank round from an M4 carbine will send anyone or anything flying back. But not this guy. It defied logic. And thinking about this has kept me wide awake tonight.

  The patient’s momentum sent him crashing into Gordon and knocked him off his feet. Gordon was pushed back into the wall. He cracked his head.

  I reacted immediately. I wasn’t thinking. It was just a reflex. I grabbed the patient by the hair and pulled him out of the way, throwing him to the other side of the room. Gordon’s eyes were closed. I checked his pulse. He was alive but he had been knocked out cold.

  The receptionist heard the gunshots and moved up to the door. "What the hell’s going on?"

  "That patient," Drake said. "He completely lost it. He attacked us. He charged us."

  The receptionist stood in the door way, with her hands covering her mouth. She was in a state of shock. We all were.

  It happened so fast. We had no time to stop and think things through. No time to warn the patient that we were authorized to use deadly force if necessary. He was too quick.

  We called it in right away. Requested a containment crew ASAP.

  They arrived in a couple of minutes. A whole group of guys in yellow HAZMAT suits.

  They secured Gordon to a stretcher and took him away for overnight observation at the hospital.

  After the shock had worn off, Franco moved outside to give a full report to the containment crew.

  The gunshots must’ve aroused the suspicions of some the locals because there were a few people milling around the front of the reception area, trying to get a look. Drake told everyone to back the hell off. He didn’t bother with politeness or courtesy. He just started yelling and swearing at people.

  I found myself alone in the bloody, messed up operating room. It was only then, when everything had calmed down that I noticed someone else in the room. A nurse. She was lying in the opposite far corner, behind the doctor’s desk and an overturned patient bed.

  She was lying on her back. Her breathing was rapid. Her chest was rising and falling in short sharp breaths. Her head was resting in a pool of blood. Her blonde hair was soaked red.

  I looked around for someone, anyone. But I was alone.

  The other guys had moved back out of the room. Franco and Drake were still talking to the containment crew. I was about to go and get someone, maybe the receptionist, or another nurse or another doctor.

  But then I heard the woman whisper to me.

  I walked slowly towards her. Her neck had been ripped open. You could see her throat, her esophagus. Blood was flowing and oozing out on to the floor. It was very dark. It seemed to be coagulating right before my eyes.

  "Are you all right?" I asked.

  Yeah, as soon as the words left my mouth I felt like such an idiot. I can’t believe I said that. Of course she wasn’t all right. Half of her neck was missing. She was bleeding out. She was dying a slow and painful death right in front of me. But I said it anyway. I don’t know why.

  She whispered something again.

  I couldn’t hear her, so I leant in closer.

  "Please," she said. "Please."

  "It’s going to be OK," I lied. "A medical team is on their way. They’ll be here in a couple of minutes."

  "Please," she repeated. "Kill me."
r />   She began shivering, her legs started to twitch. "Please, kill me."

  Strangely, the wound in her neck had stopped bleeding altogether. The pool of blood around her head had turned black, almost solid.

  Her eyes were becoming more and more blood shot.

  "Please, kill me."

  I stood up and took out my side arm and aimed the barrel at her forehead. I thumbed the safety off. I hesitated.

  Franco entered the room with a couple guys dressed in yellow HAZMAT suits. "What the hell are you doing?" he asked.

  "She’s hurting," I answered. "She’s dying."

  The guys in the HAZMAT suits stood at the entrance to the room, refusing to come any closer.

  "Has she been infected?" one of them asked.

  "What?"

  "Has she been infected?" he repeated.

  "I don’t know."

  "Has she been bitten?"

  I looked back at her neck. It was a complete mess. "I... I don’t know. Possibly."

  "Dispose of her."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Kill her. A headshot is the only way."

  The woman looked at me with her blood shot eyes, pleading. I placed my index finger on the trigger of my sidearm. I held my breath.

  I’m looking at my watch right now, counting the seconds. It’s three in the morning. But I can’t sleep.

  Whenever I close my eyes, I see this woman. I see her blood soaked blonde hair.

  She was young. Attractive. She was dying.

  I can hear her whispering to me. Like her head is right next to me, resting on my pillow, like she is whispering into my ear.

  Please.

  Kill me.

  And just as I’m about to fall asleep, I hear the gunshot.

  January 22nd – Testing

  Unfortunately the attack at the Doctor’s surgery was not an isolated incident. There had been other reports of violence throughout Woomera. The virus was beginning to spread through the town as well as the immigration center. It was starting to get out of control. And after everything I saw today, I’ve got a bad feeling that this situation is about to get a whole lot worse.

  We were woken up an hour early. Not that I minded. I was still wide awake. I knew I was probably going to crash hard later on in the day but I was hoping adrenalin would help me get through the patrol. Some strong coffee wouldn’t hurt either.