When dawn came, the truck sputtered to a stop. Newt didn’t have the slightest clue as to how a truck worked, but the bloody thing had been making weird noises for a couple of hours and when it died, he knew it was dead for good. He’d been driving for a while on a giant, broad road that was filled with scattered vehicles, most of them pushed to the side. The word freeway came to his mind, unbidden, and he figured that’s what the massive road had been called in the days before the apocalypse.
He sat there, inside a dead truck, for a long time, watching the sunrise over the skyline of Denver. He’d driven aimlessly for most of the night, but when he’d found the freeway he’d decided to head in the direction of the city, marked by just enough light to know it was there. It was a brilliant sight, now, its skyscrapers looking brand new from a distance, framed by growing sunlight, and he longed to travel back in time when such cities ruled the Earth. And you could enter—and leave—as you liked.
Happy. That’s how he felt.
He’d lost his backpack and had no food. No possessions except his journal, stuffed in an inside pocket, digging into his leg. The Flare infested his mind, quickly driving him toward the Gone and then past it. His stolen truck was dead, he had nowhere to go, and no one to talk to. He’d never see Tommy or his other friends again, and he now remembered his family that could very well be dead. He was alone, utterly.
And yet happiness filled his chest. It made no sense, and it was probably just another sign of his encroaching madness, but he gladly accepted it. He’d done something good. Deep down, he had a feeling that Keisha was immune—she’d shown no overt signs of the Flare, at least not around him. And although his part had been tiny, he’d helped her get back to her daughter and her obviously troubled brother. Newt was ending his era of sanity with a positive, hopeful spark. And it made him happy.
He reached into the inseam pocket of his pants and pulled out the journal. Although he should’ve given the thing to Keisha so that it would hold some future purpose, he was thankful that he could make another few entries. Not quite ready to leave the relative safety of the truck, he opened the small book, unhooked the pen, and began to write.
Maybe someday, somewhere, somehow, the journal would be found and read. And he wanted posterity to know that he had experienced happiness. Not just with Keisha and her family. He had known friends, had shared laughs and adventures with them, felt their love for him and had the joy of returning that love. What else could anyone ask for?
Immunity, food, a big house, a world that wasn’t in an apocalypse, a neighborhood filled with all those loved ones? Yeah, that would be better. But still.
I really am going nuts , he thought, and shocked himself with a smile.
Tongue pinched between his lips, he bent over the journal and wrote all these things and more.
