I’m not the only who keeps a diary. I was cleaning up the fire tower, which included shoveling some blood soaked snow off the deck, and I found a notebook that was used as a journal. The first page read as follows:
This is the diary of Floyd Templeton. He lives among the dead. He wishes it was the other way around.
It didn’t occur to me until I had read a few pages of the diary that Floyd Templeton is FT. The man who warned me about the Gore. The man who left me clothes and food. If it wasn’t for Floyd Templeton I’d still be wondering in the blinding snow, freezing and starving to death without ever dying.
The first part of the journal is just filled with stories about his life before the end of the world. He was a chef in Charleston, South Carolina. He had just opened his own restaurant when everything fell apart. Délons were the first of the destroyers to show up. Everyone thought it was an alien invasion. Within a week of the first Délon sighting, Charleston was a ghost town. He wrote:
The Market, King Street, the hospitals, the ports, nobody is anywhere. I am the only one left.
He holed up in St. Philips Episcopal Church for awhile thinking that if any other survivors were left they’d surely come to a church to pray. After all, that’s what people do when the world ends, isn’t it? Pray? He spent three months looking for others on the streets during the day, and sleeping in the church at night. Every day, he’d come across at least one dead body.
He started noticing something strange about the bodies. He hadn’t given it much thought at first, but the more bodies he saw the more apparent it became. They were all missing a part and it was never the same part. Even the dead animals he’d come across were missing something.
He kept log of the missing parts. His diary was filled with things like: Cat – left eye, Woman – left arm, boy – head. It was a gruesome list of the mangled dead. There were so many entries of the dead and their missing parts, I stopped reading them. It was just too horrible.
I read his diary until it was too dark to see. The last thing I read before I couldn’t read anymore was this:
I went to the aquarium today. I had been avoiding it because I could smell the stench of dead fish and animals from Francis Marion Square, but I ran out of places to look for other people, so I went. I wish now I hadn’t. The tanks were filthy and the fish were dead and floating lifeless in the murky water. Their eyes were bulging, milky white orbs. Their bodies were bloated. Some even had exploded bellies with guts dangling in the water. But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was what was on the second level. Those body parts I’ve been tracking were there. All of them, stacked in neat piles taller than me. There were dozens of piles with hundreds of body parts. I couldn’t move when I realized what I was looking at. I stood there wanting to throw up, scream, run, cry – but I couldn’t do anything. That is not until I saw a head; a man’s. It was bald with a thin strip of gray hair just above the ears. Its eyes were closed; were closed. As impossible as it sounds, they opened. I would have thought it was just a natural occurrence. Dead bodies do that sometimes. They move when the muscles stiffen. But then they blinked. I ran.