Between Life and Death: Dead Woman's Journal: Between Life and Death, #0

By Ann Christy

If there's one good thing about the end of the world, it's that Jillian wasn't alone when it happened. Her neighborhood is still populated and more importantly, no one is trying to eat anyone else. The rest of the world isn't so lucky. Where the Awakened roam, terror follows.

A medical miracle turned bad is the cause of it all. What's worse, almost everyone has some form of the medicine in their system. Medical nanites changed the landscape is wonderful ways, but when those medical miracles went haywire, it was the end of the world.

Within the safety of their small waterfront neighborhood, Jillian and her neighbors must forge a new path, one that will keep them safe...keep them alive. Within each of them lies the seeds of destruction, but also the will to survive.

Dead Woman's Journal is a prequel to the thrilling Between Life and Death series. This full-length novel stands alone and is without cliffhangers. While there are some descriptions of violence, the novel is appropriate for ages 16 and up.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ann Christy
• Release date: Jul 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393005551

Ann Christy

Ann Christy is a retired Navy Commander with more than twenty-eight years of operational and scientific experience. A graduate of the University of South Carolina and the Naval Postgraduate School, she has a strong educational and professional background in oceanographic and meteorological physics, biochemical marine science, and coastal ecosystems. She lives by the sea under the benevolent rule of her canine overlord and delusional cat.

Book preview

The Journal

Day 9 - Morning

I’ve read somewhere that one should never start a book with the weather or the day of a person’s birth. I’m not sure where I read that little gem, but it came to me just now as I looked at the first, disturbingly blank page of this journal. It’s a fat book and if there’s anything more intimidating than a blank book, it’s a fat blank book. There’s more expectation. The paper is smooth, but not so smooth that it feels cheap. Writing in it feels a bit like ruining it.

This isn’t my first journal, so I shouldn’t be such a ninny. This is only my second one though. The first was the one my therapist gave me after I left the hospital. It was the day I went into a rehab center for months of pain and progress. I was twenty-two then. So young. Back then, I felt stupid writing in it. I’m not a natural journaler by any stretch of the imagination. There were no little pink diaries for me when I was small. I was more action and less introspection as a kid.

That first journal had a purpose though. Journaling was supposed to help me process my trauma, the loss I experienced, the physical changes I would have to deal with for the rest of my life. I suppose it did the job well enough, but I confess that I felt best about it on the day I burned it in the firepit behind my house. That was when this house was new, still unlived in. Back then there were boxes and bare walls and new furniture meant to be comfortable for a person in my condition. It was all new, all shiny. Everything wrapped in plastic and stain-free.

I remember that day, the day of the first fire in my firepit. Lighting it made me feel very independent. My therapist said it was me claiming my new space, which might have been true. It was nice though. I loved the smell of good, dry wood catching, but not the harsh scent of the cover’s artificial materials catching fire. I remember the strange way the smoke changed as the pages covered with ink and tears burned away.

That’s what I remember most, the strange smoke. Also, I remember worrying that the wooden deck built for my wheelchair might catch fire and leave me stranded in the yard, which would have been a super-embarrassing start to my new life. That was years ago, but I remember it like it was yesterday.

Anyway, that was my first journal, and I truly thought it would be my last. It was written under duress, me giving way to the pressure of a therapist whose opinion meant a lot to me. Her nudges forced me to pick up the pen. This journal will certainly be my last. Of that I’m sure, though I’m sure of almost nothing else. Or at least, I’m not entirely certain of much else. I’m not sure how I can ever be certain of anything at all ever again. The world has ended and that pretty much turns everything on its head.

It’s because of that uncertainty that I need this journal. Every choice I make now is filled with consequences, most of them the life-or-death sort. That’s heavy stuff to carry alone, so writing things down might help put them into perspective. It worked before. Plus, I can’t talk to anyone else about most of those choices. I have to consider everything carefully, and I have to do it on my own.

I’m not sure what I really intend here with this journal. Is it just paper therapy? We could call it that. I guess we’ll see what happens. Anyway, here goes.

Rather than commit the error of beginning with the weather—which is always interesting this time of year—or my birth—because who cares about that—I’ll start where it’s most logical to start: my death.

Day 9 - Afternoon

No, I’m not a ghost. Nor am I gasping out my last while contemplating a three-hundred-page journal filled with lovely paper. I’m also not being dramatic, because it’s really the logical place to start. It’s more that I’d like to get that part out of the way. One of those life-or-death decisions needs to be made regarding my own death. It seems reasonable to get it out on the table. I’d like to deal with that first. Maybe it will make everything else easier to deal with.

I only had to stop writing earlier because there are things to do these days that can’t be put off. Things like the crazy Awakened that we need to protect ourselves from. And yes, that also involves me dying, but in the exact opposite way that everyone else is worried about dying.

It’s complicated.

Everything I do starts with me counting down the days until my death. Well, and the fact that I have to do any such counting in the first place. Also, the end of our world as we knew it is an issue. But if you’re reading this, then you’ve been out there. You already know the world has ended in a rather spectacular fashion. The surprise is over. The world is covered with crazy, people-eating, nanite-infected Awakened and we all know it sucks.

Big time suckage.

I’ve got to backtrack a little, because I’m making a complete hash of this and it’s supposed to be my journal, my record of life after the end of the world. It’s my silent therapist. It’s a reference if I need it. It’s also a record for whoever finds it, which if you’re reading this, is you. I’m going to do this like I did in the first journal, and lay out the problem.

Here’s the story from my perspective. Nine days ago, I was rudely interrupted during my second cup of coffee by screaming. That turned out to be the moment of the Awakening. I didn’t know that then. At that moment, all I knew is that my coffee was really hot, and I was covered in it.

My ignorance didn’t last.

The screaming was coming from my neighbor’s house, so I ran over there. Marcy answered the door with her hair all messy and something that look suspiciously like puke splashed over her shirt and pants. I asked if she was okay, but she surprised me by telling me her mom had woken up. Her mom had been in a coma for a very long time, so yeah, huge surprise. The screaming was still going on, but it sounded sort of muffled all the sudden, so I asked if she needed help.

She waved it off and said they’d called for another nurse and everything would be alright. The regular nurse was there and had said she thought it was probably confusion and possibly pain. I felt weird about leaving her, but she was smiling, so I said all the polite things and went home.

When I walked back in, my favorite morning show was already being interrupted. I don’t know how much of the beginning you saw, but I got to see it all from the start simply because of that one scream and my addiction to morning talk shows.

At first, the news of what they now call the Awakened was confused. The woman at the anchor desk said, They’re awake. The First Responder Failures have awakened.

And so, a moniker was born.

It was all the other stuff that made it very clear this was a bad thing. All the diabetics with the new medical nanite device implanted to control the disease…and eventually cure it…had gone crazy. But not only them. Besides diabetics and Awakened, it seemed a random assortment of nanite carrying people had suddenly decided rabid, cannibalistic behavior was the way to go.

It only took a short time for the news to start showing us disturbingly colorful images of care homes as the Awakened ran around eating everyone. Then hospitals. Then traffic cams with more of the same. Then street scenes…and so on and so forth.

By the end of that first afternoon, everyone knew. Some of the neighbors managed to return home. A few times they came with tires screeching as they raced down the road, trying to shake their complement of Awakened, who were running and screaming behind them.

That was a bad day.

By that night, a total curfew was in effect. There were firm assurances that the authorities would restore order in no time at all. Right. We were all on lockdown in our homes and wondering what came next. While it was clear that medical nanites were the source of the problem, no one is sure exactly what happened. I’m not sure we’ll ever know all the details.

The full realization of what that meant for me didn’t sink in for over a day. I just didn’t make the connection. I was too engrossed in everything on TV and paranoid about every noise in the woods behind the house. When I did make the connection, it hit hard. I’ll tell you why soon enough. I promise.

What happened over the next few days was a harsh introduction to our new reality. Aside from the few, crazy Awakened that ran on bleeding feet into our neighborhood, there was a new form of isolation to deal with. Isolation isn’t something we modern humans deal with well, unless it’s by choice and carefully crafted to be only as isolated as we want it to be. This type of isolation was different. It was forced on us while we were still confused and reeling, which made it hard and uncomfortable. This was particularly true for Marcy. That’s the house the scream emanated from, the one I heard at the moment of the Awakening.

Grace, her mother, is in Marcy’s house and is an Awakened. She’s tied to the bed and without a nurse to tend her. No one would go over there to help her after those first news broadcasts came on. Seriously, who in their right mind would voluntarily get close to an Awakened once they understood the stakes? That first night, I didn’t even think about Marcy being alone with her mother. I was too wrapped up in the TV coverage to realize the nurse had left and no replacement came.

I sort of felt like an asshole later, after I understood her situation. Marcy came to me for help the next morning, because everyone here knows that my body is teeming with nanites. Also, I’m very nice, the helpful neighbor who enjoys helping. Plus, I’m very strong and almost half of me is made of metal, which means about half of me won’t notice if I get bitten.

Okay, that was probably confusing, but I’ll get to that. I promise that too.

So, I went over to Marcy’s and helped her with her mother. I think that broke the ice a little in the neighborhood. I didn’t get eaten and Marcy gave me a big hug on her porch when I left. Those are two very important things these days, not being eaten and being willing to get within hugging distance of someone.

For a little while, everyone was suspicious of everyone else in the neighborhood, but this seemed to ease tensions. There weren’t much in the way of neighborhood chats or street-side mingling that first day and night. Or the second day…but they got over it…for the most part.

You see, I’m not the only one with a bunch of tiny machines in my body around here. With Marcy and I being in the same spot and no one dying, the suspicion died just a little. Eventually, it wore off when no one tried to eat anyone else, and now we’re working together. It just took some time for the confusion and fear to take a back seat.

All in all, it could have been worse, particularly considering this is the demise of our society.

Anyway, back to me and the question of death. I’ve done the math. I have a feeling it could get ugly in the end, but I have two months’ worth of medication before the ugly starts. In a way, that makes me lucky. Not everyone has two months of medication they need. Except, my medication isn’t pills. I’m not sure I should take this medication. I keep thinking about those crazy people running around in traffic biting at cars. I don’t want to be one of them.

As silly as it might sound, I’m afraid of those vials of medicine. They changed my life and I loved them, truly loved them, before all this started. What I lost so senselessly twelve years ago was returned to me with that medicine and a lot of hard surgery. Not entirely and not completely, but enough so that I woke each morning filled with joy and hope and the capability to do almost anything I wanted. I can’t express how entirely my life changed after the medication.

Let’s take something simple, like reaching grocery shelves. That had been impossible for me before the medicine. Also running, jumping, and reaching the top cabinets in my house. After the medicine, I could do anything, even swim, though that took some little floaty rings on my legs, which was hilarious. In a few words, I regained my life through surgery and those vials of medicine.

That’s really why I’m starting here. Perhaps this writing is taking the place of talking it out with someone. Perhaps it will help me decide what to do. I don’t know. It’s not something I can talk about with anyone in the neighborhood. I think it might be dangerous for me to delve into that realm with anyone who lives here. They might decide those vials of medicine need to be destroyed, because they’re too dangerous to have around.

You see, the medicine in those vials are medical nanites. And nanites are what started this. Nanites are what ended the world just over a week ago.

So, now you understand. Maybe, if you’ve picked up this journal because you found my house, you’re now listening carefully, wondering if I’m one of them and waiting for you. Perhaps you’re even now dropping this book to warn others. Maybe you’re performing another, more careful search of the house. And that might be wise of you, because I don’t know what you might find either. And that’s why I’m afraid.

If you do find me and the worst has happened, please know that I didn’t mean for it to. Know that I did all I could to prevent it. Know that I would never want to hurt anyone. If you do find me like that, please do me the favor of killing me one more time, this time for good.

Day 10 - Morning

I’ve been remiss. I’ve been scratching out my fears and worries in this journal, and not been thinking of you. I apologize. As I was making a cup of coffee this morning, I realized that I should be making better use of this journal.

While I picked up this journal to help myself, I can also use it to help you, whoever you are. It occurred to me that even if human civilization is ending, that won’t be the end of people. Anything any of us can do to help another person survive is a good thing.

When I’m not writing in it, I’m going to put the book in some handy spot where a quick and observant person is sure to notice it. If you saw it quickly, then hello and welcome. If it’s been days or the house is a wreck and you’ve only just dug it out, then hello and I’m sorry for the mess.

Assuming things are fine, please relax and know that you’re welcome. Whoever you are, no matter your path here, you are welcome. Have a hot shower—assuming the solar works—and a good meal—assuming there’s still food.

This house is all electric and runs well on solar as long as the utilities are used wisely. The gas stopped going to other houses on day six. You should have hot water here, assuming the water is still flowing. There are lots of assumptions, but whatever the situation here is when you arrive, know that it’s alright that you’re here. You can take your ease.

This journal isn’t private. You can read it. I think I only realized just now that I’m writing it for you as much as for myself. Maybe it’s that singular human need to be known or remembered, even if only through some scribblings in a book. I don’t know.

I meant to write more, but Marcy is here, so I’m going to have to stop for a bit. She needs help with her mom. I’ll be back. At least, I hope I will. Her mom is no picnic to take care of.

Day 10 - Afternoon

I’m back. What a day. Of course, every day is like that now. Now that my duties are done, I can get back to the topic of my nanites and get myself some much-needed paper therapy.

I have two weeks until my next dose of nanites is required. Normally, I go to the doctor once a month near the end of my dosage period to get blood tests. I wait for the results at home after picking up my new vial of nanites. Then, I inject my new nanites when they tell me it’s the right time to do so. I’m lucky that I have extra vials. I’d be willing to bet that most of the people like me don’t have extras.

I have extras because I’m a strange bird who doesn’t feel right without a well-built nest. My doctor knows this about me. He put it down on the prescription as extra vials due to travel plans, but the truth is, I’ve always hated being on the last of anything.

It doesn’t matter if it’s coffee or toilet paper or medicine. I simply feel odd when there is no more of something that I think I’ll need. It stresses me out and makes me feel twitchy. When I open the last bag of coffee, I put it on the grocery list, even if that bag will last a month. And if that last bag gets low? Well, then I’m nervous about it until I have more. It’s just one of those quirks.

My friends say that’s because I’ve had to rely on others for things—usually others that have been paid to perform said tasks. I had difficulty doing even the simplest chores myself. It’s amazing how much planning and thought is required when one gets around in a wheelchair.

Let’s stay with my example from the last entry, because it’s a pretty crucial and typical restriction. Grocery shopping,