It has been roughly 2 1/2 years since I sat in that classroom and heard the sirens — the sirens that signaled the destruction of my family, my future and my world. Just a little over 5 months ago my suicide boat washed up on an unknown shore and I found Arklay , and thought I might have found my life again. Since that day, I’ve discovered an independence never experienced prior. I’d always needed someone else to look after me and I’m grateful for all those people who assisted me along the path that led me to this place but they’re gone now. I pray that most are still among the living. I know that many, most certainly, are not.

As I look around the street that runs by the diner, I let my mind drift and, as it does, it brings up  images of an overcast, rainy day and I see my friend Levy walking in to the diner courtyard for the first time. I see the friendly dogs I’ve fed lounging about under shelter of the picnic tables and I see the dark stranger with the spinning blade lurking in the secrecy of the shadows. I blink and the scene is Coach’s pub, bustling with activity. The patrons are drinking and laughing and a couple of the men have taken to the dance pole and begun removing their shirts as they strut their tight bods to the amused laughter of the girls at the tables near the stage. Another blink and the crowd is now gathered on the street outside the SMart only this time they are trying to rescue one of my co-workers from her abductors, two transient hillbillies that decided a red-headed restaurant worker might make a tasty meal for their family.

More and more memories come to life. Some are pleasant, some horrific. I see the rising of military, rebel and religious factions. I see the Watchmen posting fliers on the walls of local business and I see strangers passing through, their characters ranging from comedic absurdity to ominous foreboding. Then I hear the banging of a door, blown by the wind, and the images fade as I’m reminded that the streets of Arklay are empty and silent of human voice. The new, stronger Kim feels hope and assures me that soon there will be laughter and fighting and animals once again searching for handouts in the lanes. But the old Kim is still inside, reminding me of the insecurity of being alone and I can’t help but feel the dread forming around me like a fog, within which I hear whispers taunting, “This is the end. The virus has won.”