My Dearest Carol
Carol and I met on a Sunday afternoon in July. I was captivated instantly. She had velvety walnut brown hair with matching eyes and a white floral dress, bending down to feed the pigeons the crust of her turkey sandwich. I approached her as the bird with the broken wing stumbled over the last piece of bread. Her voice sparkled like the hair on her head. I felt as if I was dreaming when she spoke. I had to have her.
"The surgery was successful sir."
"Thank you Tremblay," I replied, as he drifted back to his cage. I felt grateful for that doctor when I walked into the operating room. Taking him was brilliant
Carol was sprawled on the table, still unconscious, with a white bandage wrapped around her fragile skull. I didn't dare think of what must have been a gruesome scene when that beautiful head of hers was so barbarically carved open. An ugly picture, but a necessary one. That computer chip wired her brain now, and she'd love me forever.
The day I bought the engagement ring, I had a business meeting with a frail old woman named Erica Pritchett. She paled in comparison to Carol. Her jaded eyes sunk into her face past the Titanic and her skin could sand the paint off an airplane.
"Who's she?" Carol asked, with desperation pervading her voice.
I turned around and there Carol stood in the doorway. Carol stormed towards my business partner and snapped her neck without expending a drop of energy.
"Do you love me? I love you Thomas. We'll be together forever Thomas."
"Of course darling. I'll always love you," I said, as I pushed her ring deeper into my pocket. Tears streamed down her cheeks while blood pooled in the corner of Erica's mouth.
"Then how could you spend time with this"–Carol looked down and shook the old woman's lifeless body–"whore!"
"I care for you Thomas. I'm a good girlfriend. I do everything you ask. I cook. I clean. I'm faithful. I'm a good girlfriend Thomas. I'm love you."
I woke up with an ear-splitting headache on the floor of Tremblay's cage, with a crooked gash running across the side of my face.
"How's your fiancée?" Thomas asked sarcastically. "Is that chip in her head working?"
Fiancée? Damn Tremblay! He knew! He gave her a faulty chip! Carol's assault was his fault. I can't let Carol marry me now! I reached in my suit pocket for the ring I bought earlier. It was gone! I couldn't let her find it!
Carol walked into the basement and unlocked my new home. "Thomas, take me for a walk. I need some air."
"Yes darling," I replied, stumbling out of the cage, nearly collapsing onto the concrete floor.
"Take me to where we first met. I want to go there," Carol said, as she dragged me to the foyer. She opened the door and I saw the trail of bloodied, flattened grass that she dragged me through on the way into the house.
"What's that?"
I looked as she dropped me. As I fell, I noticed a small black box on the bloody lawn.
"Carol!" I yelled nervously, "Don't worry about that silly thing. I bet it's nothing."
Carol ignored me as she walked out to the little black box. I scrambled to catch up and bat it away but she was too fast. I was too weak. Tears of joy ran down her face when she opened the box. Tears ran down mine as well, but for a very different reason.
"Yes Thomas! I'll marry you!"
Trapped!
8:06 AM
Well, against all odds, that damned Westley was actually right about this whole zombie apocalypse fiasco. It's quite unfortunate, truly. Madame Crane and I were to have tea tomorrow morning. Instead, I'm stuck here in this bunker on some tiny, miserable island in the Shetlands. Hildasay, Heldashay or whatever its name is, I don't quite know what it's called but I don't like it. There's no hustle and bustle here like there is in Liverpool.
8:34 AM
Admittedly, Westley probably saved my life by taking me here. From the government broadcasts, it appears half of England has now been "zombiefied" or whatnot. I do quite enjoy, well, the lack of cravings for the contents of the cranial cavity, so I should probably be thankful for that. Also, I've heard from some circles, that zombies lose their sense of etiquette. I'd rather die than become such a model of poor manners and incivility like those dastardly undead.
8:59 AM
Westley's sources for the zombie mess we find ourselves in are quite a curiosity. It appears that the entire world has been caught by surprise by the apocalypse except for the man I'm sharing this bunker with. I saw him five minutes ago on the telephone. I don't know how it's still working but he's using it nonetheless. Anyway, he appeared to speaking with a woman by the name of Madame Cromwell. Something about fruit, maybe, I don't know. I feel like lingonberries shouldn't be Westley's main concern in our current predicament, so I wonder if it is a code for something. It is very strange that he had prior knowledge to the impending doom. Then again, I am very hungry right now, and lingonberries do sound terribly delicious.
9:18 AM
My last bit of writing reminded me of how little food I've eaten in the past day, so I went to help myself to a scone. Now I don't how Westley somehow managed to get this past me, but I learned that we have several sheep on the premises, and they've been here longer than I have. I casually mentioned it to Westley, and he told me not to think about it. How daft! How could I not think about it. If I had brought several hoofed animals here without Westley's knowledge, I'm pretty damn sure he'd be thinking about it afterwards. On the bright side, it was a delicious scone.
10:01 AM
A new piece of news came in from England just now. The prime minister is now a zombie. This information remains unsubstantiated for now, but it serves our government right. If Westley managed to predict the apocalypse, all the resources at MI6 should have been able to as well.
10:45 AM
Excellent news! Madame Crane has survived so far! She was stranded in the Lake District when the would-be conductor of her train was zombiefied. He was killed by a French passenger. Maybe not all of the French surrender immediately. Most, perhaps, but not all. Maybe one day Madame Crane and I shall be reunited.
3:11 PM
At Westley's insistence, I left the bunker briefly for some air. He says that I'll need to learn how to farm and raise the sheep on this tiny island, but I don't see his why that's necessary. I had enough money to buy this island and commission the construction of this bunker, so I easily have enough money to just buy more food.
3:18 PM
After watching more of the news, I have realized why I cannot simply buy more food. I will follow Westley's advice and learn how to farm.
7:31 PM
After being caged up in this bunker for a while, I started thinking about how ridiculous it would be if there's no zombie apocalypse at all, and that Westley had just planned some elaborate prank. Then again, that zombie on the news did look an awful lot like the prime minister.
7:40 PM
I hope every day isn't as boring as this one. Westley suggested naming my journal to alleviate some of the monotony. What a ridiculous, childish thought! I will never do such a thing.
10:23 PM
Dear Thomas Jr,
I'll be going to bed soon. It is late and I am quite sleepy. Westley is outside tending to the sheep. He says we're going to be here for a while, and when he did, I swear I saw the slightest of smiles on his face. It's probably nothing though. I should get to sleep. Westley is going to teach me about root vegetables tomorrow.
The Scars of Iron
The Barabal family had a proud history. Their lineage had been producing Redeemers for ten generations, and that line ended with me. It was a magnificent party when I was abandoned. My grandmother received a holiday from her post at the Consular’s Bridge to visit for my eleventh birthday. Orkin, my mother’s manservant, made my favorite meal: rabbit braised in whale fat with raspberry mash. We ate, happily and anxiously awaiting my acceptance letter. Instead, the Council sent the Iron. I was burned and broken on the streets within the hour.
“Commander Trimble says there’s one in the Lighthouse District.”
“Thanks Cora,” I reply, as our skiff travels up the River Marling to Hulby, my home. I haven’t been back in nine years.
I have a job to do. The Empire’s been hunting Redeemers ever since they took over the South. Those of us who got the Iron, the brand that gets burned into the face of all the exiles, were given a choice: Kill the Redeemers, or die with them. I jumped at the chance.
“This way,” Cora whispers, as she steps off the skiff and dives into a worn out bathhouse. I follow her in, navigating through the moldy walls, taking care not to tumble through the rotten planks on the floor.
We weave through the halls until we hear a faint gasp coming from a cart of towels. Cora gives me a slight smile, twisting the gnarled scar on the side of her face.
“We have three more floors to check, come on,” she says wryly, as she sneaks towards the cart with her pistol drawn. I draw my dagger and move to the other side.
Cora kicks the cart my way, spilling a cascade of putrid towels, and a ragged woman with them.
“You’re coming with us!” Cora yells, as I move my dagger to the woman’s throat.
“No need,” I interject, “She’s not a civilian. I know her. This one’s a Redeemer. This is Lucinda Barabal. She served with Prince Brunswick himself.”
“Ophelia,” the woman stutters, drool coming from the corner of her mouth, “Ophelia is that you?”
“Ophelia is dead! Your daughter died when you watched her take the Iron! Your daughter died when your people, your Redeemers gave me this!” I yell as I trace my scars with her fingers, showing her every crater, every crooked corner, every twisted edge.
“I was eleven years old! I did no wrong! I was worthy for your stupid order, and you didn’t fight back! You didn’t protest! You were the highest Redeemer outside the Council, but you did nothing!”
“Come on Ophelia, we have a job to do,” Cora interrupts.
“I suppose you’re going to kill me then, hunter”
I look at the woman and walk away, nodding to Cora on my way out. I can’t kill Lucinda myself. She did not redeem me, and now, as her bloodcurdling shrieks pierce the walls of the Lighthouse District, she is not worth my hunt.