January 1st 2020

It began somewhere between 9/11 and Aleppo. As I write this, I struggle to keep the tears from falling on my book, the knowledge is precious. The first waves of the inhuman were put in suits and commanded to act in the middle of warzones, eliminating the women and children, the sick and wounded and elderly. And then they grew out of control. When a CNN journalist was attacked on live television and eaten, many blamed drugs. Others blamed the psychological effect of the war. They wrote papers about it failing to realise what truly was happening. There were jokes about bath salts, conferences about PTSD. But the virus remained unnamed, undiagnosed. The first I heard of it was when I was in school. People whispering excitedly about having to fight for their lives. I thought they were dumb. But here I am; crouched in the corner of a sub basement of a building in the middle of the end of the world. The others are long gone. My scavenge for food is a scavenge for survival, for hope, for a warm body to cling to. I am better off on my own, I can mask my scent far easier but I am for want of humanity. I long to meet a being without the desire to kill and destroy. I am weary of living on adrenalin alone.This is M.N.H and if you find this, run.