Leo stood in the middle of the second-floor room of house No. 14, his breathing still labored. The scratches on his face stung from sweat and blood trickling down in thin streams. The bodies of the two mad ones—the man and woman he had just shot—lay on the floor, surrounded by puddles of dark blood mixed with dust and the wreckage of furniture. The hammer that had fallen from the man's hand lay against the wall. The woman's nails, still curled as if clutching at the air, had left deep marks on his cheek.
A heavy silence had settled over the room, pressing on his psyche, broken only by the occasional drip of rain seeping through cracks in the roof. Leo lowered the shotgun, feeling fatigue and a rising lump in his throat.
Too late.
These two—the very ones whose pale faces he had seen, whose brief appearance had given him hope—were not survivors. They were victims of the gas, transformed into monsters.
He looked around, trying to distract himself from the ghastly sight. The room was saturated with dampness and rot; the air was stale despite the rags stuffed into the cracks of the windows and doors. These makeshift barricades had apparently protected the house's occupants for a while but couldn't stop the poisonous gas slowly seeping through the gaps.
Leo approached the table. Next to an extinguished candle, its wick covered with a layer of soot, lay scraps of paper covered in uneven, trembling handwriting. Looking closer, he realized these were fragments of a diary—perhaps written by that very woman whose dead eyes had just stared at him with mad fury.
His heart beat faster. He felt a mix of hope and fear. This could be the story of their downfall—and with luck, a clue to the source of the horror surrounding him.
Carefully, as if afraid of burning himself, Leo gathered the scraps, smoothing them with trembling fingers, and began searching for the rest. Behind the worn, moisture-soaked curtain already spotted with mold, he discovered a tattered notebook hidden under a pile of old blankets. Its cover was torn, and the pages were damp, but the text was preserved. This was the entire diary.
He spread the pages on the table, trying to restore the chronology, and sat on a chair that creaked under his weight. The flashlight trembled in his hands, casting shadows on the walls where the wallpaper peeled away in damp clumps.
The first entries, dated mid-June, told of the first signs of trouble. Leo began to read, immersing himself in another life that had ended in this dead house.
June 15, 2030. *The air has been different for several days now—heavy, with a metallic taste, as if someone spilled mercury on the streets. Neighbors whispered about a gas leak somewhere in the north. Matt and I closed all the windows, but the smell still seeps through the cracks. Scattered news flashes on TV about a pandemic sweeping the country like COVID-19 once did. My husband is nervous and afraid; he says we need to stock up on food and water. I don't want to believe it's that bad, but I see his hands shaking.*
Leo swallowed, picturing this family—in this same room where death now reigned. He turned the page. The entries grew more desperate.
June 16, 2030. SMS alerts began arriving on our mobile phones—from rescue services, ordering everyone to stay home. They say the infection is dangerous, all work is suspended except for street cleaning. At night, we hear the roar of engines—vehicles with loudspeakers shouting for people not to leave their homes. My husband went to the processing plant this morning; he returned pale, with red eyes. He says he saw people being herded into evacuation trucks to a safe place, and those who resisted disappeared. Colleagues from work told him the hospitals are full, and everyone is dying or becoming… different. I'm worried about him, but he insists his work in sanitation is our last chance.
June 18, 2030. This morning, urgent news was broadcast on TV. They say the danger has diminished, but we need to stock up on food and water for a few days and stay quiet. They urge evacuation, promising salvation for all. My husband refused to go; he says those who agreed have vanished and are out of contact. The gas smell is growing stronger, and though the rags on the windows help, I feel it seeping into the house.
Leo paused, rubbing his temples. He imagined this woman sitting at the same table where he was now, clutching a pen while fear tightened her heart. He read on, and the entries grew darker.
June 19, 2030. An evacuation convoy arrived—several school buses with hastily taped blackout film on the windows. Soldiers in medical masks, with red armbands, went door-to-door. A woman in a jumpsuit with a rescue service patch and a gas mask tried to persuade us to leave. She said it was for our own good, that we'd be evacuated to a safe place. We refused, and she yelled, threatened force. Others left—I saw from the window as they were loaded, about forty people. My husband left the first-floor door unlocked, and we hid in a secret little room in the attic where Matt had set up something like a secret den with explicit magazines and movies, thinking I didn't know about his weakness—how glad I am now I never made him dismantle it. But even from there, I heard them breaking down doors in neighboring houses that were locked. Is this the end?
June 20, 2030. A state of emergency was declared. This morning, instead of the usual patched-up school buses, four trucks and three Humvees arrived—again, soldiers in uniforms, but not masks this time, rather military-style gas masks with the same red armbands. Through a loudspeaker mounted on the roof of one Humvee, a woman with a hoarse voice announced that everyone was being evacuated. Ordered everyone to come out and leave doors open for disinfection. Many left, but my husband and I hid in the little attic room. I heard them breaking into houses that were locked and forcibly dragging out people who didn't want to leave. They didn't find us, but I had to clamp my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming in fear.
Leo felt a chill run down his spine. He pictured the scene—the family huddled in the dark while outside, army boots thundered and cries of people being forcibly taken away echoed. The entries became more disordered, reflecting the disintegration of their minds.
June 21, 2030. The water was cut off. Electricity went out earlier—now we only have candles for light. I hear trucks driving down the street escorted by military police cars, taking those who dared to stay. My husband is coughing, his eyes are red—the gas is still getting through. He went to search for water, returned late, pushing a full shopping cart of food and water bottles. He says the stores are abandoned, no one around, everyone's evacuated. I'm worried for him…
The final entry read:
July 7, 2030. The gas has won. The rags didn't help—it's everywhere. My husband is barely holding on, and I feel the gas slowly driving me mad. My head spins, a murky red haze before my eyes, my hands tremble. I hear columns of vehicles driving down the street—no strength to go to the window and look. Matt cries one moment, then starts shouting loudly the next; I clamp his mouth shut, but my strength is running out. Is this the end? If someone finds these notes, know...
After that came only meaningless scribbles.
Leo closed the notebook; his fingers trembled. A heavy weight grew in his chest. The woman whose words he had just read was the same mad one whose nail marks he still felt on his face. Her husband lay in a pool of blood on the floor at his feet.
Leo swept the room one last time with his flashlight. On the table lay empty cans, a broken pen, and a long-extinguished solitary candle—all that remained of these people's desperate struggle for survival. Carefully stepping through puddles of now-congealed blood, he stepped out into the night, carrying with him the weight of another's tragedy and his own fear of the inevitable.