Rachael's Apocalypse Diary, page 1
Rachael's Apocalypse Diary
Smiling Flu Book 2
Len M. Ruth
Ruthless Press
Copyright © 2022, 2023, 2024, 2025 by Len M. Ruth
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
Contents
Editor’s note:
1. Entry 1
2. Entry 2
3. Entry 3
4. Entry 4
5. Entry 5
6. Entry 6
7. Entry 7
8. Entry 8
9. Entry 9
10. Entry 10
11. Entry 11
12. Entry 12
13. Entry 13
14. Entry 14
15. Entry 15
16. Entry 16
17. Entry 17
18. Entry 18
19. Entry 19
20. Entry 20
21. Entry 21
22. Part 2
23. Entry 22
24. Entry 23
25. Entry 24
26. Entry 25
27. Entry 26
28. Entry 27
29. Entry 28
30. Entry 29
31. Entry 30
32. Entry 31
33. Entry 32
34. Entry 33
35. Entry 34
36. Entry 35
37. Entry 36
38. Entry 37
39. Entry 38
40. Entry 39
41. Entry 40
42. Entry 41
43. Entry 42
44. Entry 43
45. Entry 44
46. Entry 45
47. Entry 46
48. Entry 47
49. Entry 48
Also by
About the author
Editor’s note:
This is a diary, obviously. In the process of getting it ready for publication, I had a lot of tough choices to make. On the one hand, I wanted it to be a smooth, polished experience for you, dear reader. On the other hand, I didn’t want to erase Rachael’s unique voice. Though she’s a nuclear engineering student, she’s also a young millennial writing in her diary. Taking that into account, I did my best to edit Rachael’s diary with a light touch. I think the roughness of her prose conveys the danger surrounding her.
Further, she wasn’t the kind of woman who marked off a calendar every day, and once her phone died, she had no way of knowing the date. Thus, I had to find a way of letting you know time had passed. How much time? We can only use the clues she left us.
I hope you enjoy reading Rachael’s Apocalypse Diary as much as I did.
Len Ruth
Entry 1
Ihate diaries. But I feel compelled to document my struggle to survive. Jesus. That makes me sound like a pompous jackass. I have no idea what day it is, so I can’t date my entries. I guess it’s been about three weeks since the power went out. Thank God it isn’t winter, or I’d be a popsicle and not writing this. I’ll have to find some way to keep track of time in this little notebook, but that’s for another time. Oh, yeah, my name is Rachael.
Before all this, I watched a lot of apocalypse and disaster movies, and not one of them showed the crawling carpet of wiggling brown insects I have here. Also, there’s the smell. The movies might mention the smell, but then the characters go about their business as if they were in a pine-scented forest. Let me tell you, it’s not like that. At the beginning of the outbreak, the government did a pretty good job of getting the sick to the hospitals and the dead to the morgues. Later on, though, not so much. I’ve got a third-floor apartment (well, it is… was my brother’s) across from the hospital. We watched the National Guard put up giant tents in the parking lot after they towed all the cars away. I bet they could fit a hundred beds in each one. People lined up for blocks trying to get in, but within a day, no one else was. I guess the tents were already full.
My brother got sick a couple of days later. He made me put a gallon of water in the bedroom and told me not to come in. I knocked every couple of hours to check on him. On the second day, he stopped answering. I’m sorry, I just can’t talk about what he looked like or how hard it was getting him out of the apartment. It’s not that I’m sentimental about his body. It’s just a meat vehicle for the soul. I miss him a lot. Anyway, I started all this to tell you about the roaches. They started showing up a few days after the smell got really strong. I try not to imagine the bodies in the other apartments, the food rotting in the fridges and sinks, hungry pets dying next to their owners. The roaches showed up around the sinks. Just a few at first. That pissed me off. I keep this place very clean, even now that the water is off. When the smell in the building started making me gag, they showed up in force. Hundreds, thousands, scurrying across every surface in the apartment, including me! You’re probably wondering why I’m still here, right? There’s still food, and some water, more than I can carry, more than I dare leave behind. I’ll need it. Plus, I figure if I went walking down the street with a bag of food and water, a nineteen-year-old, alone, well, the best thing that could happen is they’d steal my food. I don’t want to think about the rest. Better to sit tight ‘til supplies run out, or who knows, maybe someone out there can still fix this mess.
Anyway, the roaches. They’re so bad I actually punched holes in the ceiling and hung the bed from ropes so they couldn’t crawl up the bed frame and crawl into my mouth while I’m sleeping. I am—I mean, I was a sophomore nuclear engineering student, so I’m pretty handy. Now, I look down in the morning, and for just a second, I think there’s a brown carpet on the floor before I realize it’s moving. Yesterday I taped a sheet to the ropes over the bed after they started dropping down on me through the holes in the ceiling. The smell is so bad I gag all the time now. The whole city stinks, but the building is worse, so instead of just opening the window to empty my crap bucket, I left it open all day. Mistake! I thought the roaches were bad. They’re nothing compared to the flies.
Entry 2
Ihave no idea what’s going on in the world. From the looks of it, nothing. There’s no TV, or radio, or internet, or anything to tell me whether to stay put or get out. So, with food and water starting to run low, I got out. I left my brother’s apartment in DC yesterday on foot. I’ve seen a few people. When I got up the bravery to yell to a guy on the other side of the street, I asked if it was over and if there was a cure. He just shook his head and kept going. He had a red bandana over his mouth like an old-time bandit in a cowboy movie, as if that was going to do anything. Not for the smell, and not for the virus, just a ridiculous placebo.
Once you get to the open places, the smell of death is almost tolerable. Anyway, I walked out of the city at night because I thought I’d be less of a target for someone wanting to steal my stuff. Maybe I was right, but there were so few candles burning in windows, so few signs anyone else was left alive, that I’m not sure it was worth it for how scared shitless I was. The city was totally quiet. No cars, machines, planes, people, air conditioners, nothing. What the city does have is the dead, and the things that eat them, and the things that eat those things. It was too dark without the streetlights and car headlights to make much out, but damn, did I hear stuff. I’m talking mostly about rats here. They don’t tell you about the rats in apocalypse movies. Oh sure, they throw one in here and there for a nice jump scare, but they don’t show the teeming mass of vermin like there was in DC (and I’m not talking about the politicians). Trash bags that piled up after the trucks stopped coming—were moving. Whole crinkling black mountains wiggled in the moonlight. You could hear them chirping, squealing, and probably fucking inside the trash. They ran up and down the steps of houses, in and out of car windows, and sometimes right across my feet. Millions of huge rats rule that city now.
I saw a couple of dogs too. They were scary at first, but I think they were scared of me too. One, a cute little white terrier, grabbed a rat and shook it side to side. The rat’s head cracked on the sidewalk. Then the dog just ate it right there like it was nothing, totally normal, just a regular bowl of kibble.
I’m heading south, away from the city, on 95. I figure it’ll be the easiest walking. And I’m going to have to get somewhere warm before winter. Somewhere I can get food and water. What I’m really hoping for is to find out this thing mostly happened around DC. Maybe I’ll start seeing cars without corpses in them, you know, driving around. Then I’ll hitch a lift into a town with food and electricity, get a job, and live happily ever after. It could happen, right? Today I’d just settle for a roll of toilet paper. See, I spent last night in the back of a truck full of potato chips. It was a blessing because I was pretty hungry. The less said about the way I felt this morning, the better. Anyway, I really need a roll of toilet paper. They don’t tell you about that either.
Entry 3
Water is a big problem. I started searching cars along the highway for sealed bottles of water on the first day. I hit the jackpot too. I found almost a full case. That was what? Four days ago? Walking is thirsty work. I keep looking for a car with no bodies, keys in it, and a charged battery. Might as well be looking for a unicorn. I don’t know how to hot wire a car, or drive one either for that matter. DC had great public transportation, and driving just didn’t seem that important—then. But I mean, now that there are no other drivers, how hard can it be?
Anyway, water. It’s been a dry summer here. I wish I h ad a map. That’s another thing no one ever really thought about. I can’t say for sure I’ve ever held a paper map, except the ones they give you at theme parks to find the rides. Like everyone else, I just used my phone. Dead battery. And even if I could charge it, I’m not sure that would matter. I bet a million dollars there’s no service anywhere anymore. I just made myself laugh. A million dollars. It’s all useless paper now. How ‘bout I bet a gallon of clean water instead? At this point, that is worth a million dollars.
As I get further from metro DC, there are fewer cars. That means fewer chances to find supplies. I need to get off the highway and take the surface roads south. There’s probably more water and food, and who knows, maybe even people. People who will talk to me, help me. There’s probably more danger, too. Paranoid much? Every time I hear a car (yes, there are still some cars driving around), I hide. I’m afraid they’ll shoot me, take my stuff, maybe even eat me. Well, maybe not that last thing. There’s not many people left, so there’s still plenty of stuff lying around. I’m getting pretty sick of potato chips, though. I crammed my bag full when I left the chip truck. Speaking of that, I did find some toilet paper in the trunk of a car, lots of it, and whiskey, and cigarettes. Who stuffs their trunk full of toilet paper, whiskey, and cigarettes? Makes no sense. Why would someone hoard all that and not food and water? There were no corpses in that car, but no keys either. I slept in the back seat last night. I figured there was probably no virus if there were no bodies. Not sure how long the virus lives on stuff, so as long as I’m not sneezing tomorrow, I’m good—maybe. Anyway, wish me luck on the water front (see what I did there?).
Entry 4
In the apocalypse movies, they don’t really tell you about the silence. Okay, yeah, they kinda do, but not the deep unbroken silence that stretches out around you, squeezes in on you, and makes you feel more alone than you’ve ever felt in your life.
I left the highway two days ago and found this little house by a little lake. I’ve been spending my time boiling lake water on the little wood stove, then putting it in any container I can find, then drinking the rest. This wouldn’t be a bad place to stay except for the silence. It’s driving me crazy. At night, you can hear the house getting older, falling apart. Every little sound means that this is all that much closer to dust. It’s just an occasional click of wood on wood in the walls. A little creak to make you wonder if something’s there… or someone.
It’s funny, I haven’t heard any people. You’d think they’d flock to a place like this, plenty of water and shelter, not too far from the highway. There are cottages all around the lake, but no people. Are there so few of us left? I thought it would get better when I got away from the city. At least it smells a lot better. There’s no sound of birds or frogs, just boiling water and creaking wood. I wish there was someone to talk to. I’m worried I’m starting to get a little nutty being alone so much. It’s been too long since I had a conversation with another human being. I’d talk to myself, but the silence feels impenetrable, sinister. Maybe I’ve read too much Poe, Lovecraft, and Stephen King. I wish those guys could be here to see this. Boy, did they get it wrong. Anyway, there’s not a ton of food here. Enough for a day of walking, or two days of resting. I think I’ll be on my way tomorrow before the quiet drives me insane.
Entry 5
Holy shit, I’m sick. My stomach cramps are so bad I can’t stand up. I don’t know why. It started this morning after I ate some instant oatmeal from a packet I found. It might not be the oatmeal, though. Those don’t really go bad. I’ve been checking the expiration dates on everything. I was going to leave this little house by the lake after I ate, but then the cramps started. Then the throwing up started, then diarrhea. I’m too weak to get to the lake and fill the bucket I use to make the toilet flush. The whole house stinks something awful.
I wish there was someone here to help me, or even just someone to talk to, someone to tell me it’s going to be okay. It’s terrifying. I managed to clean up most of the puke from the kitchen floor, but the cramps got so bad I had to stop. Now there are ants. It’s so stupid, me worrying about ants in the kitchen of a house I was going to abandon anyway. In my old life, before all this, I was a neat freak. My brother used to say, “Old habits die hard.” I guess that’s true. I wish he was here. I miss him so much, and my mom, and well, people, I guess. It’s funny, I never used to be much of a people person, but now every day, the loneliness gets worse.
My stomach hurts so bad. If it’s not the food, maybe it’s the water. Maybe there’s something wrong with the water from the lake. I’ve been boiling it, but maybe not long enough? Or, shit, I didn’t even think of this, but what if it’s a chemical contaminant? As a nuclear engineering student, I should have thought of that. I was studying to make chemicals, compounds, and processes my bread and butter. Now, fuck, they might be in my bread and butter. Could be why it’s so quiet—why there are no birds or frogs. If it is, then, depending on what the chemical is, I’m dead. I’m getting dehydrated from the throwing up and diarrhea, and I’m just not strong enough to go looking for clean water. Just now, outside, I think I heard a car. But, as sick as I am, it could be a hallucination. No, no, it is a car, and… two doors closing, trying to be quiet, but I can still hear them. The window is open. Whispering. Steps on the porch. I have to go. Pray for me.
Entry 6
Iwas so sick all I could do was crawl out of the kitchen to the bedroom doorway where I could see the front door. It opened slowly, quietly, and a man with a salt and pepper beard was standing there with a little girl, maybe four years old.
“Oh God,” he said, covering his nose and mouth with his hand.
“That’s yucky, Grampy,” the little girl said.
The man put his hand on the doorknob to close it.
“Wait, please,” I said.
“I thought you were dead. It smells like you are.”
“I’m sick—”
He started to close the door again.
“Please, wait, it’s not the flu. I think it’s the water. Please, Mister…”
He closed the door.
“Grampy, why aren’t we going to help that girl?” I heard the little girl say through the door.
“Because she might make us sick.”
“But that’s not right, Grampy. You always say that we should help people. It’s the Christian thing to do. We’re still Christians, right?”
“Shit. Nancy, we’re Catholics, it’s… we’re… Sunday Catholics… ah hell.” He opened the door.
I wanted to cry with relief, but I couldn’t spare the water for tears.
“Can you walk?” he asked.
“I don’t think so. I’m so thirsty.”
“Ok, I’ll get you some water. I’ll leave it by the door. I’m not coming in there. Get to the door, and drink the water. Then we’ll talk.” He left the porch and took the little girl with him.
I did my best to crawl to the open door. As I dragged myself across the kitchen, I did my best to avoid the remains of my puke and the ants feasting on it. The outside air was fresh and good, and it made me feel a little better.
The man came back up to the porch with a sealed bottle of water. He twisted the cap and set it on the weathered boards in front of me.
I pulled myself up and rested my back against the doorframe as I drank. The wind made a shushing sound through the pines that surrounded the cabin.
“Easy now,” he said as I chugged the water. “Breathe. Make sure you keep that down. It’s too precious to waste.”
I stopped drinking and took a few breaths. The water felt icy inside me.
“What’s your name?”
“Rachael.”
“I’m Jeremy, and this is Nancy,” he indicated the little girl standing by a black SUV with a bunch of stuff strapped to the roof.
“Hi,” I said, then took another drink of water.
“How long have you been here?”
