likely. Although the plague had spread too far-too fast-to be
contained, Mom finally had wanted to go public with the story.
Maybe she was silenced. Whether she killed herself or tried to stand
up to the military and government doesn’t matter; she’s gone in either
case.
Now that I understand my mother better, I know where I get the
strength-or the obsessive will-to repress my own emotions when I find
them too hard to deal with. I’m going to try to change that about
myself. I don’t see why I shouldn’t be able to do it. After all,
that’s what the world is now about: change. Relentless change.
Although some hate me for being my mother’s son, I’m permitted to
live.
Even my father wasn’t sure why I should be granted this dispensation,
considering the savage nature of some of my enemies.
ected, however, that my mother used fragments of my He susp genetic
material to en ineer this apocalyptic retrovirus; perhaps, therefore,
the key to undoing or at least limiting the scope of the calamity will
eventually be found in my genes. My blood is drawn each month not, as
I’ve been told, for reasons related to my XP but for study at Wyvern.
Perhaps I am a walking laboratory: containing the potential for
immunity to this plague-or containing a clue as to the ultimate
destruction and terror it will cause. As long as I keep the secret of
Moonlight Bay and live by the rules of the infected, I will most likely
remain alive and free. On the other hand, if I attempt to tell the
world, I will no doubt live out my days in a dark room in some
subterranean chamber under the fields and hills of Fort Wyvern.
Indeed, Dad was afraid that they would take me anyway, sooner or later,
to imprison me and thus ensure a continuing supply of blood samples.
I’ll have to deal with that threat if and when it comes.
Sunday morning and early afternoon, as the storm passed over Moonlight
Bay, we slept-and of the four of us, only Sasha didn’t wake from a
nightmare.
After four hours in the sack, I went down to Sasha’s kitchen and sat
with the blinds drawn. For a while, in the dim light, I studied M I
the words Mystery Train on my cap, wondering how they related to my
mother’s work. Although I couldn’t guess their significance, I felt
that Moonlight Bay isn’t merely on a roller-coaster ride to Hell, as
Stevenson had claimed. We’re on a journey to a mysterious destination
that we can’t entirely envision: maybe something wondrous-or maybe
something far worse than the tortures of Hell.
Later, using a pen and tablet, I wrote by candlelight. I intend to
record all that happens in the days that remain to me.
I don’t expect ever to see this work published. Those who wish the
truth of Wyvern to remain unrevealed will never permit me to Spread the
word. Anyway, Stevenson was right: It’s too late to save the world.
In fact, that’s the same message Bobby’s been giving me throughout most
of our long friendship.
Although I don’t write for publication anymore, it’s important to have
a record of this catastrophe. The world as we know it should not pass
away without the explanation of its passing preserved for the future.
We are an arrogant species, full of terrible potential, but we also
have a great capacity for love, friendship, generosity, kindness,
faith, hope, and joy. How we perished by our own hand may be more
important than how we came into existence in the first place-which is a
mystery that we will now never solve.
I might diligently record all that happens in Moonlight Bay and, by
extension, in the rest of the world as the contamination spreads-but
record it to no avail, because there might one day be no one left to
read my words or no one capable of reading them. I’ll take my
chances.
If I were a betting man, I’d bet that some species will arise from the
chaos to replace us, to be masters of the earth as we were. Indeed, if
I were a betting man, I’d put my money on the dogs.