Log from January 1st, 2012
The New Year marks the beginning of the end of days.
I’ve come to the conclusion that our accounts need to be told to someone other than Jack. Don’t get me wrong – it’s not like I’m going to stop telling him bedtime stories just because I finally wised up and began taking a log. If we ever slow down long enough for him to take a look at this, you can take that as a promise, Jack, so don’t get upset.
We don’t have computer access, though, and obviously we’re occupied during library visits. You can’t let your guard down in those places.
The following journals will be posted by the Scarlet-marked.
This first log was written on blood-spotted napkins. I’ve typed up everything that was legible and guessed at the rest of the words.
She writes in red ink.
We’ve packed the car as lightly as possible, but there’s no telling how much longer it’ll run for – I’m on the last quarter-tank and I can’t work a gas station on my own. Where we’re going, there will be people, but unless the gas station attendant is Scarlet-marked I haven’t got a chance in hell of affording a fill-up.
We’ve put Razzie in the back seat and tossed some rawhide back there to keep him occupied, but it doesn’t seem to help much. He’s really edgy; I’m chalking it up to how some dogs are nervous drivers. He’s really quiet, though. Only ever gets snarly around regular people.
Okay, maybe not just ‘regular’ people, but that’s another big part of his charm. I’m pretty sure he can sniff out a Camper or proxie or Nightlander from like, a mile away. Totally why we picked him up in the first place. Well, that, and Jack wanted a puppy. A giant puppy.
I try to spoil the kid as much as I can, since we don’t get much opportunity for it. Plus, he really works hard to pull his own weight, you know? He lugs the cooler around when/if we have to take it out of the car, he’s put himself in charge of finding safe water, and he does it all without passing out. I think the poor kid’s got a thing about blood. He goes like, corpse-pale every time we run into one of my marked. It’s like their noses turn into gushers.
Which is really funny, actually. It’s like, clearly the universe doesn’t think they’ve put on enough red to identify themselves to me. Got to get some natural henna going on.
Henna face tattoo? Actually, that’d be kind of bad-ass looking.
We couldn’t find indoor parking, and since it’s so fucking cold, I’ve been wrestling with myself for the past half hour whether or not to risk carbon monoxide poisoning, or shut the car off and give up on my dream of being able to sleep with the heat running. Jack’s out like a light. After the day we’ve had, I think a blizzard could start up and he wouldn’t notice.
- Wait, how loud are blizzards? Maybe that was a bad comparison.
Back on topic.
The first half of the day was dedicated to driving. Possibly in circles; I never actually know for sure how we break away and get back into civilization, but once Razzie starts trying to prowl around the back seat, we know we’re there. Jack was getting fussy, too, so we pulled over and walked along the side of the road for a little bit. Not shocking, Razzie ran off, but since that’s nothing new and we know he always comes back, I was cool with it.
The bothersome thing was, we were still in a country-zone. Big flat fields, pretty sure there were cows about an acre away, excessively tall snow banks that I choose not to step in because dude, you do not know what could be in there. Some of the deadliest things in the world can hide in regular grass, you really think I want to willingly take a step into that when it’s halfway up my leg?
With everything flat and white, though, I should have been able to see whatever Jack was seeing. He kept insisting there was something, though. The more I told him I couldn’t see anything, the more he began to freak out. At first I thought he was talking about the dog, which…still didn’t make sense, to be honest, but he wasn’t.
I still don’t know what he saw. I don’t think he knows, either. I do believe him, though. Only idiots don’t listen to children when they claim there are monsters under their beds. Metaphorically speaking, I mean. We don’t have beds.
Anyway – we called the dog back and got back in the car. It started snowing about then, which was massively inconvenient, especially since Jack was still in a bit of a panic. It was a little hard to focus on both, and we almost wound up in a ditch twice. We stayed on the road until we hit a diner set back in this dingy country strip mall – it was some shitty little place where the food appeared to be resistant to its own texture. Everything was limp and kind of mushy. Everything. The coffee smelled good, though. I mean, I wouldn’t know because
a) I don’t drink coffee and
b) I don’t drink anything a stranger gives me
but it had a warm scent to it, you know? Sometimes that’s comforting all on its own.
I noticed though. Don’t think I didn’t notice you right away – I did. You were sitting in a corner and blatantly ignoring the waitress…and everyone, for that matter. You had a truck outside. A rusty red truck. I liked that touch, it was practically a beacon.
The waitress brought you a fistful of napkins because your nose had started leaking like someone forgot to turn off the taps to your veins, and I stole all the rest of the napkins when her back was turned. It so wasn’t what Jack needed to see, but hey, it did give me this idea. I’m hoping you’ll be around tomorrow before I hit the 401 to get to some civilization.
I also tried to buy your coffee for you. Thanks, by the way, the waitress told me you’d covered the bill for Jack and me. I appreciate it. My Scarlet-marked seem to understand that funds get low real fast, on the road…
Saves me from having to ditch Jack for extended periods of time and peddle myself on a street corner. Not that I haven’t. Sometimes, you do what you’ve got to do, damn whether or not you’ve got kids at home. Well…kid. And, well…car.
Anyway. Now that you’ve all gotten the gist of what goes on in ‘a day in the life of’…
This is my message.
It is coming. All of them.
I’m trying to find the front lines, and get on them. I know some of them don’t care, but the Game starts today, and whether they give a damn or not they’re taking part. Pistol shot in the air, it’s a fucking race to the finish. Personally, I hope it’s the Quiet to get us all.
I’ve got grudges. I can’t just sit back and let them have my 2012, though. I said – at the very stroke of midnight, you can quote me on this – I said this year was mine.
I’ll be damned if it doesn’t go down that way.
If you’re Scarlet-marked, I will look for you. I might hand you a sheet of paper, or a notebook, or – fuck it – a napkin. Maybe even a post-it note, I don’t care so long as I can write on it. I’ll keep the world involved, updated.
If you’re Scarlet-marked, pay close attention, and come online. The Internet is for porn – I mean, getting the word out.
I, the marked first-chosen, wrote this log as true to her words as possible.
Mark yourselves with red and join the war.