Three years. Three is all it takes to lose your humanity. I know. It's already happened. No, I'm not a Screech, not yet. But I'm as good as one, anyway.

I remember reading about this kind of thing, but it was just a fiction back then. The scientists first said that the sick would heal eventually. Then they amended that statement and said that the sickness was fatal. Never once did they tell us how the sickness was spread. They simply assured us it wasn't contagious. Yet. There was always a yet.

The sick did not die. It's as if the bug inside them shored up all their other immunities. All the books and comics could not prepare us. You couldn't just shoot their heads; their nervous systems were scattered all over their bodies. Cut its head off, and it follows you blindly. But it's best to cut off the head, or else you'll have to hear them. That's the reason they're called Screeches. They usually carve their eyes out anyway, so hearing is the only way they find you. I've never heard a wolf howl, but it couldn't be anything worse than a Screech.

I'm the last in my area. Three years ago it would have been so easy. I could have traded a couple of bullets with my neighbours for food. The Screeches made that an impossibility. I read somewhere that your soul is ripped in half when you kill a fellow human. If that's true, my soul is lost. It was Camirreba first, then Gordon, and a long list of good men I have killed to stay the plague. But now is not the time for memorandums.

I've prepared for this day for longer than you can know. The US Army had developed a device fuelled by positrons that could ravage enemy positions. I had paid three magazines of bullets for the device itself. It was simple really; a small nuclear reactor in the core provided the punch. An energy field captures the positrons and charges the bomb. The detonation module was more difficult to procure. I had nearly all the parts; bits of wire to induce electrons, bolts and loose metal to convert charge. The only thing I needed was a way to transmit them to the device. I hadn't found that yet.

Yes, this day began like any other. I awoke to the cacophony of Screeches. "Upsy-daisy," I muttered as I hitched my Winchester to my back. Then I swung open my door. BAM! I knew where to hit them: their windpipes. Without their larynxes, they had no way to scream. Two more shots could knock the head clean off. I carried on--but now I'm shocked--and I loved it; the spurt of blood, and the vile beasts clutching their throats.

A pair of strong hands grabbed me and I dropped my gun. I spun to face the Screech that held me. She moved her hands to my mouth and pried it open. This was the way they passed the bug. The Screech belched loudly and I smelled the stomach juices that were making their way up her throat at that moment. My hands fumbled at my hip. Where was it? Where...

There it was. My hatchet flashed upward and lodged in her arm. I yanked it out of the arm and raised it again. The grotesque appendage hung loosely, it's tendons severed. My way was paved. I ducked out from under the snarling face just in time. Putrid slime splattered on my boots. Three shots disposed of the Screech. I ran back to my temporary shelter and folded it onto the trailer it rested on. As I blasted a few good shots at the last remaining Screeches, I hitched the trailer onto my third ATV (I'm not keen on discussing where the first two went) and set off across the landscape as was every day's custom.

Today was completely unexpected. Two hours driving used to get me sentimental, thinking about who used to live in the now desolate landscape. Now I solely focused on the road ahead of me. But, what was that I saw out of the corner of my eye? For the first time in forever, I was taking interest in something as I drove. A curl of dust rose above the crystalline sand. No, not dust--that was smoke! Someone beside me had for a time found safety from the monsters. I drove faster, praying that whoever had camped out had somehow not been turned yet. Maybe, just maybe I had a chance. A chance to live again.

I was mistaken. Whoever had lived here before lay at the foot of the fire. Obviously he had not been turned, but when Screeches can't turn you, they shred you. I kicked the bloody stump of a leg away from the flames and pried
open the man's hand. He was holding a key. "How did he get this?" I mused.

That was the wrong question to ask. I followed his sightless eyes toward the makeshift shelter and saw an unopened chest. An clever decision for sure, and a fortunate one. I slipped to it as I had learned to do in the years since they rose up. When I opened the chest, it was filled with cans of vegetables and I silently praised the Savior for His small miracles. And at the bottom of the chest was a small leather-bound journal.

Suddenly I grabbed at my leg as a sharp pain shot up the back. Something had bitten me! My hand quickly stung with the same pain, and I pulled it back to look at it. Luckily, it hadn't broken the skin. But what had bitten me?

I backed away from the chest and immediately a yapping began. It was a little