Collected from the New England Forward Aid Post during the final weeks.
Most civilians show long‑term infection signs: pallor, organ strain, slow pulse. They walk, talk, work. They look alive enough. Hard to convince them they’re carrying the thing that will kill them twice.
Checkpoint overrun last night. Not by numbers — by speed. The dead moved like they’d been waiting for permission. One soldier swore he recognized a face in the crowd. Said it was his neighbour. Said the man had died months ago.
I didn’t correct him.
Treating a survivor from the cannery. Lacerations, shock, early infection markers. She asked if she’d turn fast. I told her the truth: it depends on what the virus has already taken from her. She nodded like she’d expected that answer.
The base is thinning out. Supplies low. Morale lower. The dead gather at dusk, drawn by sound or memory or something older. They don’t breach the walls yet, but they watch.
Feels like waiting for a storm that’s already broken.
Evacuation ordered. Most won’t make it. Some refuse to leave, saying the town is home even now. I understand.
If anyone finds this: the virus doesn’t kill the body. It kills the future.
We tried to hold the line. The line moved.