#oneaday Day 655: Wasteland Diaries, Part 3

The device gave a soft “click” as I slid my finger across its smooth screen. I wasn’t sure how it could possibly still be working, given the devastation surrounding it, but there must have still been some power coming from that socket.

I didn’t think on it further at that point; what was more important was the fact that this small device might offer some clues as to what happened, where I was and — unlikely as it might be to think — who I was.

The display blackened for a split-second then opened to presumably whatever the last holder of this phone had been doing. It looked like they’d been reading an email. Although my memories of the events leading up to this devastation — not to mention who I was — remained obscured, either the inferface was intuitive enough or I simply had a natural understanding of the technology to be able to scroll through the message and see what it had to say.

The message had been sent by an “Evelyn Anderton” to someone called “Annabelle Anderton” — the owner of the phone, presumably. I assumed the two were related, as the tone of the message was somewhat familiar in tone.

“Annie,” the message read. “I know you’re scared, and I wish I could be there with you. I wish I could tell you it’s all going to be all right. But I’m not sure it is. I’m sorry to not be more positive with you, but with things being how the are I think the sooner we all face reality, the better. I wish I could see you one last time, but I don’t think that can ever happen, Annie. I love you. Stay strong. Evie x”

I scrolled back through the message thread to see if I could glean anything from the conversation between the two women — sisters? — but they didn’t mention anything specific. Of course they wouldn’t have — everyone would have known what was going on, from the sound of things, so people probably didn’t want reminding of what appeared to be something both disastrous and inevitable coming, creeping up on them like the end of the world.

No, not like the end of the world — it pretty much looked like it was the end of the world.

I touched the button in the corner of the screen to go back to the inbox. There were only two other messages in there — one looked like a junk promotional message for some place that sold entertainment products, and the other was short, to the point and all in capitals. It was dated after the conversation between “Evie” and “Annie” by two weeks — October 31, 2014.

“ALPHA AND OMEGA WILL UNITE,” it said. There was no sender listed.

I frowned, curious as to what the strange message meant, but decided that there wouldn’t be any easy answers forthcoming while I stayed here. A popup message filled the screen informing me that the server wasn’t responding and the phone couldn’t get new mail. I wasn’t surprised — I would have been more surprised if the phone had been fully functional than I already was that it had power.

I glanced into the corner of the screen. The battery indicator read 86%. It was falling fast — I decided I should stop fiddling around with the device until I had a good reason to, and switched it off. I also pulled the white cable out of the wall and tucked it into my pocket — if this building still had some power, then chances are some other places might, too.

I looked around the rest of the room in an attempt to glean any further clues. Through the gloom, I saw that there was a desk with three drawers at one side of the bedroom, with what looked like a computer standing on it. The screen was broken, though, so I didn’t hold up much hope for making use of it. A foul smell was emanating from the corner of the room and I could see that an old cup sitting atop the surface was the source. The cup had obviously once been filled with a drink which had long since turned to mould, and up close it stank so rotten that I involuntarily retched.

I picked up the cup and flung it out of the window. I heard it clatter to the street below, and then all was silent outside once more. For a moment, I had hoped that the noise would attract the attention of another person — someone who would prove that I was not alone in this world of bodies which turned to dust — but it was not to be.

I opened the first of the three drawers. Inside were a few battered-looking pens and pencils, but nothing much of note.

The next drawer down was empty save for a spindle containing what looked like optical discs of some description — CDs or DVDs. They wouldn’t be much use with the computer out of action, so I left them where they were.

In the bottom drawer, I found a small black hardback book. The cover was unmarked, so I opened it up to a random page, which was blank except for a few ruled lines. I flipped backwards to the start of the book, which was less empty than the page I’d opened it up to. In fact, it was crammed with handwriting — neat and elegant, but with a few rough edges, as if the person writing normally had fine writing but was in a hurry or was under a lot of stress at the time.

I began to read.

“November 1, 2014,” began the first entry. It was a diary. “The phone lines have gone down. I feel so cut off from everything. I’m scared. I don’t know what to expect. I don’t know what the future holds. Evie said I wouldn’t see her again, and that made me cry, even though I already knew that her mission would send her far afield. I don’t even know why I’m writing this — if it all happens like they say they will there’ll be no-one left to read this. But no-one will listen if I talk — everyone is too wrapped up in their own little worlds to care about others. They say that a crisis brings people together, but it hasn’t — it’s driven them apart, every man for himself. I miss you, Evie. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

I paused for a moment. This “Evie” was sounding more and more important with everything I read relating to her. I knew what I had to do.