Finally, we made a plan and did something. Too bad it cost us.
We got our gear together, packed the Hummer in the cover of darkness, and headed into town to stock up on gas and groceries. Our plan was to get to Tulsa and see if there were other survivors there, if the...affected...were there, too. The gas station was where we ran into trouble. Poor, poor Hawkins. I didn't know him well. I didn't know him at all...
On our way to Tulsa, I got to talking with some of the kids while Billy slept. Especially Tiffany, who has been putting on a front of snobbery in front of everyone else, but who is so completely scared that she can't even admit it. I feel for her; I feel for all of them. I don't know what's to come of us. And not just the few of us, but mankind. There have to be others out there, other survivors, trying to find what little of humanity is left.
We arrived in Tulsa around daybreak. It's so strange; so much in the world has changed, but sunrises are still just as beautiful and awe-inspiring as they ever were to me. Just as reliable. Our hopes of finding survivors were not long-lived, though, as we drove into town. Just like in Oklahoma City, everything was shut down, cars were left abandoned. We were more than obvious driving around in our giant yellow war vehicle, and those affected that saw us started walking toward us. At least we were going pretty fast.
We saw a building, some sort of church, with a white flag waving in the stiff Oklahoma wind. The flag was frayed, as if torn haphazardly, in a hurry. We made our way through the littered streets to the church and unloaded as quickly as we could, me dragging Billy along by the arm despite his protests. He has always been a sleepy-head.
Once we barricaded ourselves inside, sunlight streaming through the stained glass windows, we began looking around. There wasn't a soul in the church. Our footsteps echoed on the tile floor, making us sound larger than we were.
On the pulpit was a note, hand-written, hastily, barely legible.
To those that come after us:
There was no warning. We know nothing of what happened, and we know nothing that will become of us. We hope that whoever finds this letter still has hope, as we do.
We stayed as long as we could. The affected started figuring out ways to get inside through the basement. They seemed to like it there in the cool, damp, dark spaces of the church but would come up if we made too much noise. It became too dangerous to stay. We did our best to seal off the basement and other areas where they might have gotten in, but figured we would make a run for it to Fort Sill. We are hoping that there is at least some sort of military left. We started in this church with six, and leave with four. God rest the souls of Barbara and little Christopher, and may they go to heaven for the sacrifice they made to save the rest of us. Everything we do to stay alive will be in your honor.
Good luck to whoever finds this note. We hope to see you in the future.
Sincerely,
Pastor Ryan
We have decided to stay a couple of days and see how things go. If it gets too dangerous, we'll leave. We hope to get our bearings again and then leave for Ft. Sill.
In the meantime, I plan to practice some knife-throwing with Eric and Billy. Might as well be prepared.
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