March 7, 2035

To whoever receives this letter,
I hope it finds you.

Today, I was seriously thinking about letting a runner get me. It would be quick, and ugly.

But the thought of leaving my cat, Chiquita, to fend for herself in this crazy reality stopped me. She’s even more confused than I am about what has happened over the past two weeks.

Since writing things down has always helped me process difficult situations, I decided to document the outbreak as a way to help me stay sane and not wish for death.

On Tuesday, I headed out to Chinatown to look for more canned food (I’m running out of tuna). There’s still a grocery store there that hasn’t been completely ransacked yet.

While putting cans in my backpack, I noticed an older man across from me stocking supplies.

It caught my attention that he wasn’t just grabbing food. He was packing notebooks, pens, and envelopes into a duffel bag.

I approached him slowly so I wouldn’t startle him and asked if there was still any value in saving stationery in times like these. Then he told me the strangest story.

Apparently, the West Oakland post office is still delivering mail!

I thought he was joking.

He explained that a group of survivors had taken it upon themselves to keep one post office running.

“They’re trying to get the word out,” he said. “Let people know who’s still alive, and find relatives or friends.”

The survivors move mail by bicycle. One rider carries a bag from West Oakland to San Leandro. Another rider takes it to Pleasanton. Then others carry it farther south.

Eventually, the mail makes its way all the way to Los Angeles. There is also a route north, all the way to Canada.

“I didn’t believe it either,” he said. “But I tried it. My letter reached a family in San Pedro. They might be able to help me find my sister who lives in Torrance.”

He zipped his bag shut as he started making his way out.

“Be careful out there,” he said. “You have a detector, I hope?” showing me his.

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,” I said, showing him mine.

He slipped out through the large broken window and disappeared into the night.

I thought about giving this mail thing a try, so I picked up a box of envelopes that was on the floor.

Then I heard the sound of broken glass in the store.

I froze instantly.

I pulled the detector out of my pocket, and my knife.

The sound was about twenty feet away.

I stayed perfectly still and waited, ready to stab, then run.

But I heard whispering instead. It turned out to be a father and his teenage son. I had seen them before. They were looking for matches and candles.

They recognized me and waved.

“They’re getting harder and harder to find,” the father said. His name is Lucas.

“And there are zero batteries anywhere,” added his son, Jeremy.

I pulled a pack of triple-A batteries out of my bag and handed it to them.

“This was the last pack here,” I said. “Always check under the shelves for goodies.”

They were genuinely grateful.

“If you’re heading out, we could walk you part of the way,” Lucas offered.

I thanked him but declined. I’ve learned it’s safer for me to do supply runs alone and move quickly.

Before leaving, I warned them about the corner of Fallon and 1st. I had seen two runners there earlier while scouting with my binoculars.

They thanked me for the tip.

In return, Lucas warned me to stay away from the Alameda tunnel.

“A bunch of runners came out of there at sunrise and killed a couple of people in my group,” he said. “I hid in a dumpster for hours. I could hear them snap their teeth.”

By the way, my name is Emily Van Buren. I’ll be 31 in August, and I’m originally from back East.

My mother died on the first day of the outbreak. Her X3T glasses recorded the last moments and sent me the video. I watched how the runners tackled her to the ground, bit her, and…

Runners are vicious.

Most of the time they aim to bite, but if they’re hungry enough, they’ll tear you apart.

Their eyes are frightening.

I’ve had my narrow escapes.

Just the other day, one chased me down Broadway right before sunset.

Stupid me thought I’d be in the clear since it was already sunset.

But it wasn’t dark enough.

I was picking the lock of a dive bar I used to frequent and thinking about the cans of mixed nuts they might still have in the back. And sure, maybe a bottle of whiskey.

Then I heard the snapping of teeth from behind me.

“Skrk! Skrk! Skrk!”

I didn’t even turn around to look at the runner before I took off.

I did track and field in college, so I know how to push my muscles and run like hell.

Other people aren’t so lucky. Most get tackled after only a block or two.

I headed toward Lake Merritt.

At one point, I could feel the runner’s breath at the back of my neck—then plunged right into the water.

I stayed submerged until I couldn’t anymore.

When I came back up, the runner was already chasing someone else.

It was the closest encounter I’ve had.

My glasses recorded the whole thing. That couldn’t have been it for me.

I don’t know if these runners are getting faster or if I’m losing stamina, but that was too close.

Since that incident, I wait until it’s fully dark before doing supply runs. The infected seldom chase at night.

A year ago, I was teaching an AI course at Laney College and remembered the concrete buildings on campus.

So when the outbreak got out of control and runners made it to my street on Myrtle, I grabbed what I could, put Chiquita in her crate, and rode my bicycle as fast as I could to the college’s administration building.

The code for the back door was still the same (which says a lot about their security), but I wasn’t complaining.

Once inside, I closed the door behind me, then went up to the 10th floor.
I used my bike’s chain and padlock to secure the stairwell door, then barricaded myself in the president’s office, which had a well-stocked fridge and pantry. Even a shower. Win!

I pushed the huge desk next to one of the windows so Chiquita could perch there. She spends most of the day watching outside.

The long couch became my bed, though I seldom sleep well.

The building runs on solar power, so I can still charge my phone and laptop. I don’t turn on the electric lights, though—that would call attention during the day from miles away.

I’m planning on staying put for a few days. Communications are mostly down, and the satellite signal is spotty. I guess snail mail is the next best thing.

There is a shelter in…

Wait! What was that?!

Just heard pounding on the stairwell door.

Was I followed?

-Emily