Apocalypse Soonish

Day 1

Dear Journal,

I have emerged from the Cryopod to a landscape of horror. A horrorscape, if you will.

My memory was frozen, along with my brain and body, in July of 2017. I don’t know what year it is, or what caused my Cryopod to deactivate. Something terrible has happened. Something that has decimated the Earth and society as I know it. Or knew it.

Houses: burned. Landscapes: blighted. Recyclables: not appropriately separated.

What happened in those years I was away?

What foul — hold on, what’s this, Journal? As I write this I think I hear a —

2

Dog. Or a cat. Some domesticated creature is scrabbling and scratching from beneath a caved-in roof. It is a relief to know something has survived.

As I write this I am tossing rubble aside with both hands, trying to reach the distressed pet. A furry friend would be most welcome in these bleak times.

Wait, the source of this frantic scrabbling isn’t a dog or cat. It’s a —

3

Possum! An enormous, bear-sized Didelphis virginiana, I am sure of it.

Hold on, Journal. Something is amiss with this possum. Something is terribly amiss. It’s morphology is all wrong: flattened skeletal system, protruding eyes, trailing viscera.

I think this possum is —

4

Roadkill! Yes, I’m sure of it. I’ve seen enough possums flattened to the pavement to recognize the characteristic symptoms.

But, if this possum is indeed roadkill, how comes it to be alive? What awful force has quickened the dead?

I reckon an undead companion better than none at all, and have lassoed the beast with my belt. I think I will call her Virginia.

As I observe the wreckage of the home under which Virginia was trapped, I see that the structure failed because –

5

Of to an overloaded attic. It seems the owner of this home had loaded his or her storage areas with so much stuff that it simply collapsed. Among these sundries I find —

6

A box of GT-Lite motion-sensing security light. Indeed, this exemplary product was pinning down my undead pet possum, Virginia.

How came this house to be stuffed with —

Hold on, journal. As I write this I am chasing Virginia, who has freed herself from my control and gone galloping (in her lurching, broken-limbed way) through the wrecka

7

Food! She has found what seems to have been a BBQ restaurant. Although the meat is now tough and rancid, I am happy to find any source of sustenance, as is sweet Virginia.

It does not bode well for finding other survivors, for surely nobody would leave such a valuable resource alone.

What was that sound, dear Journal?