I waited for her to wake up and, when she did, I showed her the cleaver, and she realized she was naked, and she just panicked. She tried to rock back and forth again. But this time I raised the cleaver above my head and brought it down on her wrist, severing that giant hand of hers. The hand plopped on the floor, not even twitching, and the place where her hand was just became a bleeding wound, spraying blood everywhere. Some of it got on me, too. There was this rapidly increasing puddle growing all around her, and she struggled against the rope.
I watched her bleed out for a little while, watched her lose her strength, and then I went upstairs. I took a shower while there was still hot water, changed my clothes, gathered up my stuff, and headed downstairs.
I looked in on her one last time on my way out, and she’d stopped moving. Her head was hanging down, so her chin touched her chest, and the kitchen floor was slick with blood. So I didn’t go out that way. I headed for the front door.
And the guys I’d killed yesterday, their bodies were still on the carpet. What was left of them. They were mostly skeletons now, except for a few bloated tumors that had been inside them. Untouched. Like black alien pods, that’s what they looked like. But the rest of them had been picked clean. And I just know it has something to do with those mirrored roaches I’d seen eating that Balloon Head’s body outside.
I stepped over their bones and went out the front door.
It’s still nice outside. And I just kept walking, without looking back once. The house was a nice shelter, but it’s got too many bad memories now, and I just wanted to move on to somewhere new.
I’ll try to leave the neighborhood again. But I don’t think I’ll get far. I never do.
And I find myself wondering about that stuff you’d said about other people out there, watching us. Waiting to see what happened to the three of them who I killed. And I keep expecting someone to pop up unexpectedly from behind a bush or a tree, but no one does. And for the first time in a long time, I hear birds singing. But I don’t see them anywhere. Not even the headless ones with the tendrils. But from the sound, they’re up in the branches above me. They’ve got to be. Songbirds.
It’s bothering me how easy killing is becoming. That’s not like me at all. And I keep picturing Katie’s hand, coming free from her wrist and slapping down on the linoleum, releasing her blood, and it really bothers me that I could take another life without a second thought.
I’m changing in ways that I don’t like.
So how are things where you are?
Aaron
August 14—2:50 a.m.
Aaron,
Don’t feel guilty about killing Katie. They attacked you first. You do what you have to do to survive.
People here don’t talk much. Most walk around with their hands clenched and their eyes wide. They walk fast and are impatient to pass, but they have nowhere to go. I mean, all they’re doing is carrying out the thought directives of Balloon Heads. And none of us trust one another. Did the Balloon Heads put that into our heads?
The only ones I talk to are Bradley, Cindy, and Jose. I have to ask myself: Why am I in here with the two people I hate most in the office? Jose seems nice, but he can’t speak much English and he seems fixated on Cindy. He brings her fresh fruit every morning. When we ask where he gets it, he smiles.
Bradley gets on my nerves. He is always hovering around the Balloon Heads. I asked Bradley what he is doing squatting down beside their wheelchairs. He said he is trying to find out more about them.
“What did you find out?” I asked.
“Nothing,” Bradley said.
I know that is a big fat lie. He puts his head next to their big drooping ones and smiles and laughs and talks.
It used to be hot as hell here, but now the Balloon Heads keep it cold. They have the A/C running full blast 24/7. The men love it, but all us women are freezing. Sometimes, I feel lonely and the cold penetrates my bones and starts me shivering uncontrollably. The Balloon Heads have a tendency to sweat a lot. Whereas, before, they used to have blankets around them when it was 80 fucking degrees!
Walking along the dark hallway in the cold, I pretend I’m a cavewoman in the Ice Age. Yes, I got bored with the cat motif. The ground’s hard and frozen. The plants are dead. There’s no fruit or vegetables to eat. Prey is scarce. We begin to feed on ourselves.
I wonder where the electricity comes from. They keep the cold air running, but they don’t give us light. And the dark and the cold are the two things I hate most. Why do all the people stuck in here turn away from one another? The directives they put in my head are a comfort sometimes. I wouldn’t know what to do otherwise.
There is a little man in his 60s here who always wears a red baseball cap. We call him Batshit because he is bat-shit crazy.
“Watch out for the tall men,” he says. “The tall men are evil. The small women should not be with the tall men.”
Bradley said some tall dude must have stolen his woman a long time ago. But maybe Batshit is onto something. Bradley is tall and I don’t trust him. I told Bradley as much, but made it sound like a joke. I read somewhere that tall men make more money and get promoted more often than short men. That makes sense, because most of the bosses were tall before they became Balloon Heads. Maybe Batshit is our Cassandra?
Amazing how we go on when everything’s so shitty. Why do we go on living when there doesn’t seem to be anything worth living for? Can you answer that question, Aaron?
CWITIA (Cave Woman In The Ice Age),
Joy
August 14—7:42 p.m.
Joy,
I didn’t go back to Melissa Vacro’s house. There was some canned food in her cupboards, and I forgot to take it when I left the place. But I couldn’t go back inside. I knew to enter that kitchen would mean facing Katie again. Although at this point, I’m sure the mirrored bugs would have picked her clean and there would just be a skeleton waiting for me. And her giant, severed hand on the floor. But I knew I’d see an accusing look on her dead face, condemning me for what I’d done.
I know I was justified in what I did to those people, but it doesn’t make it any easier to accept that I am a killer now.
I’m back at Davey’s school. Another place I swore I’d never return to. But I thought there might be food in the cafeteria, and there was. Lots of it. But it’s too heavy to carry. Giant, industrial-sized cans of mashed potatoes and vegetables and spaghetti with meatballs. It’s pretty awful, but food is getting scarce. Unless I become brave enough to try to eat some of the new creatures I’ve seen, and I’m not sure they are all that edible. I haven’t seen those strange, headless peacocks in a while. It was as if they had just been passing through.
This place doesn’t creep me out like it once did. No matter how much Davey disturbs me now, I know he can’t leave the gymnasium. And the other children, crab-like as they are, are more pathetic than scary. As long as I stay out of certain rooms, I’ll be fine. And there’s a steady flow of electricity I can count on for the laptop. I’ve got to admit, I’ve become addicted to your emails. They’re one of the only things I look forward to anymore.
I think Davey knows I’m here. I don’t have any proof. He hasn’t called out for me or anything. But there’s this strange, ominous feeling, like I’m being watched somehow. And while I’m more comfortable than I was before, I’ll never be completely at ease here. I might be moving on again soon.
It’s raining today. A hard, green rain that sounds metallic as it clicks against the outside of the school. I’m afraid to go outside. I keep imagining the rain is like bullets and will rip me apart. I sat by the window, watching it rain, and some of the drops hit the glass and cracked it, so I retreated deeper into the building.
The principal’s office, if that’s where I am, has no windows. But it does have an overhead light that works. A clock that still tells accurate time (I think), and of course there’s access to the Internet.
I’ve been reading some of your other emails today, reading th
em over again, and they bring me some comfort. Knowing that you’re still alive and out there somewhere. I have no idea what is keeping me from you. But I’ll find a way to get to you, somehow. I swear it.
That’s strange about Bradley. In one of your other emails, you mentioned that he asked you how you knew about the outside world, and you told him you have been communicating with me. But you didn’t tell me what his reaction was to that. Is everyone there communicating with loved ones on the outside, or only you? If there are others, then I’m at a loss, because the people I’ve seen have been few and far between. They once said that about a quarter of the population survived, but I haven’t seen any proof of that. That’s still a lot of people. Maybe in other parts of the world, they’ve been luckier? But some days, I seem to be the only person left alive out here.
It sounds like you’ve got some real characters where you are. That Batshit guy sounds nuts, and that thing you said about Jose finding fresh fruit was really strange. I have not seen anything outside that looks like fruit as we remember it. The plant life that thrives looks malformed and alien to me. I’m too afraid to try to eat any of it. I’m sure it would poison me.
I had a vivid dream last night. I was cutting Katie’s hand off over and over. And each time it hit the ground it was bigger and bigger, until it filled the entire house all by itself and poked out the windows with its fingers. And there was blood everywhere.
I haven’t been able to sleep in a long time, so it felt really good to sleep so deeply, but I woke feeling disoriented and afraid. The dream really troubled me.
I wish I could program my dreams. I wish I could make myself dream about you instead of monster hands.
My foot is throbbing. It has been hurting an awful lot since it started raining.
Aaron
August 15—3:07 a.m.
I’m a little freaked out that you are back at Davey’s school. I’ve been trying to forget about Davey. Is that terrible to say?
It’s impossible for me NOT to think of Davey. Bradley is always throwing questions at me about our son.
“It must be rough not being able to see him,” Bradley will say.
“I’d rather not talk about it.”
“Of course. It must be a terribly painful topic for you.”
I want to say: Well, if you know it’s painful, why do you keep bringing it up? I know I’m going to eventually go ballistic on Bradley. I know he doesn’t give a rat’s ass about my feelings for my son. I think he’s gathering intel for the Balloon Heads. I didn’t even bother to correct him, and stick with my story that Davey had died in the tsunami. It’s just too much effort to maintain lies anymore, and I just don’t care.
I’ve wondered whether the Balloon Heads can “hear” our thoughts the way that we can “hear” theirs, but these questions Bradley asks make me suspect they cannot. I’m not sure that makes sense, though. They still seem to compel me to write to you.
To answer your question about the others using email: Yes, other people do use the computers. The Balloon Heads appear to have us on a schedule where each person comes into this room to email at a specific time every day. Some people come in the morning, others the afternoon and the more unlucky ones like me get woken up in the middle of the night with an urgent need to email. Only one person comes in here at a time. The allotted time seems to be 22 minutes, which always makes me think of that radio station. “You give us 22 minutes …” Are the Balloon Heads thinking that our emails will give them the world? LOL.
When I write, “I have to go now,” I mean it literally. Something in my head tells me that I HAVE to leave this room. I guess that is to allow enough time for everyone to be able to use this room to send out emails. Maybe this is the only place in the building where the Internet still works. I’ve tried to write to you for longer periods, but I get a terrible headache and this suffocating feeling comes over me and I have to get out of this room to breathe. Sometimes, I’m on the verge of telling you certain things and my nose and throat start closing as if I’m being warned not to.
I’ve been having dreams, nightmares really, about Davey. The altered semi-conscious sleep state we experience here makes our dreams especially vivid. He usually appears to me in the form of a giant caterpillar. It’s his evil little face on a caterpillar’s body.
“Mother, why have you abandoned me?” he asks.
“Why can’t you ever call me Mom?”
I usually reach out to pet his pink fuzz and he backs away as he replies: “Mother, this is the appropriate measure of the distance in our relationship.”
“You’re such a precocious little guy.”
“You didn’t answer my question, Mother.”
“I didn’t abandon you. I’m trapped in this building.”
“You’re not trapped,” Davey says, “You’re just hiding.”
“Then tell me how to get out?”
His eyes narrow and he smiles. He has long, sharp teeth like a lion.
“Put your ear to my mouth and I’ll whisper it,” Davey says softly.
I start shaking and this nauseating feeling comes over me. I turn and run.
“Mommy!” Davey shouts in a babyish voice. “Mommy!”
I stop and slowly turn. I wake up from the dream.
I know it doesn’t sound like much, but this dream terrifies me. I’m starting to hate going to sleep. Davey has always scared me, but from what you’ve told me about him, he now literally is a monster. Was it our lack of love for our child that did this to him? Sometimes I think of Davey and I go into the bathroom and vomit.
I HAVE to go. I need to breathe.
Love,
Joy
NSLATT (No silly little acronyms this time). Oops … well, I tried … grin …
August 16—2:12 p.m.
Joy,
I’m bored. That’s got to be the answer. Boredom.
I’ve taken to creating elaborate mazes for the crab children. There are more left than I first thought. Maybe around ten. They must have been hiding the last time I was here.
It’s funny. I can make rooms off-limits by closing doors, so I go throughout the school, closing and opening doors at random, making intricate mazes for the children to run through.
They’re less and less human these days. They have a hard enamel shell, and their hands and feet are pretty much done evolving (devolving?) into crab claws. Their heads are flattened ovals. I almost find myself wondering what they taste like. I always did love crab cakes. But I know they were human once, so I haven’t crossed that line yet.
I leave them food. In the cafeteria, there are huge, industrial-sized cans of sauces and vegetables. I spilled some spaghetti sauce on the floor, a big can of it, and they came out of their hiding places to lap it up. They’re not afraid of me anymore. They’re used to me being around. It sure didn’t take long.
When they moved away from the big red puddle, it was licked clean. They must still have human tongues. The floor was originally crusted with dirt, and that’s washed away as well. I could clean all the floors of the building just by leaving a trail of spaghetti sauce.
It’s nice to eat normal food, at least. Some of the things I found in abandoned houses—or what was left of them—were often strange. Right down to the labels, like I said. Like the food transformed along with the people. And the houses, and the cars.
The school building is changing as well. I told you that. But it’s even more prominent now. Here, in what used to be the principal’s office, there are eyes all over the walls. Or they look like eyes. Only recently did they start to move, the pupils growing and contracting regularly, to make me believe they can actually see. The roof and walls are always creaking and I know that it’s only a matter of time that this place, like our old house, falls in on itself and becomes just as organic and alive as most of the other houses around here. It’s like any trace of wood has become a living creature, so that turns first, and the rest follows slowly. The more wood in the composition, the faster the change.
There are some brick houses that haven’t changed much at all. Like Melissa Vacro’s place. But I suspect even that house will metamorphosize over time.
What is the building you’re in like? Have you examined the walls, the ceilings? Has it changed already into something alive and breathing, or is it like it was before? I wonder how much things are altered where you are, or if they’ve somehow stayed the same. Untouched.
But I know nothing is untouched anymore.
I’ve toyed with the idea of making the maze go into the gymnasium, so the last of the crab children can be devoured by Davey. I know—it’s awful—but I told you I was bored. The thought of him gobbling up the rest of them is kind of amusing. I mean, they’re not really children anymore. And he is hungry. I hear him call out all the time for food. Sometimes he even calls out for me. And you.
But I don’t think he really believes I’m still here. He might think I left and never came back.
I’m tempted to go see him again. But I’m not that bored yet.
There is a sword on the wall behind this desk. It looks like a Civil War replica. I used to collect Japanese swords, remember? Katanas. Well, this certainly isn’t one of them. The scabbard looks like something a Civil War general would have strapped around his waist.
I took it down and stabbed one of the walls this morning. It started to bleed, but it couldn’t make any sounds. It’s all flesh and eyes. No mouths.
Yet.
And it moved. Undulated. Like it was trying to get away from me. But it can’t. It’s a wall.
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