9:00 a.m.

My name is Arthur. I am looking out into an empty city through my window. There is not another human being in sight, though honestly, I cannot see much from my attic window. I wonder why there is no one at all on the street. There are no cars, no busses, nothing.

I am nearly out of food. I am just now eating the last of a package of vegetable crackers. I am going to have to go out soon. The last I heard, many people were dying. Mrs. Browne, my friend and landlady, came up and knocked on my door over a week ago, I think, and said she was going to try to find a Dr. for some of the other tenants who were ill and dying. She said to stay in the attic away from the others. That is the last I’ve seen of her.

I have heard little since then, as the cries of the ill did not carry up into my little attic, my semi-secret hideout. How did I get here? If anyone ever reads this journal, I guess someone might want to know. I had what you might call a troubled family. That is what I overheard the school counselor tell one of my teachers one day, back when I was in school. I had taken to spending as much time away from my parents’ house as possible. I met Mrs. Browne, the lady who owns this house I live in, at the park one day while I was sitting alone reading a book I’d checked out from the public library. She came up to me and asked me about the book. She said she was an avid reader herself, (really that is exactly how she said it), and we started talking about the book and other books. I met her several more times over many weeks. She turned out to be a sympathetic friend, more like the caring mother, I’ve never had. She listened to my story and one day after a particular brutal beating my father gave me, seeing the bruising all over my face, she invited me to come and live in her “secret attic” to escape any more abuse. I was getting pretty desperate, so I went home with her and she really did have this semi-secret attic.

The attic is accessed through a locked door inside of the storage closet located on the third floor of the huge old house Mrs. Browne’s family has owned since 1900. Mrs. Browne gave me a key to the attic door and told me she was the only other person that had a key. I’ve been living here for about two years. I am now 16 years old. Mrs. Browne has been a kind landlord and as her own family was gone, she has let me work off my room and board by helping her out around the house. I’ve done some repair, and cleaning, and anything else she’s shown me how to do. She said, I was very clever and could be relied upon to help her keep the old house standing. She mostly did the shopping. Occasionally she would take me to the market with her and then to the library down the street to check out some books. I like reading and she wasn’t very demanding, so it has been a peaceful existence.

Now I am not sure what to do. The last thing Mrs. Browne said was to stay put and not go out of the attic. When I first came here, I chose to remain hidden to avoid being dragged back to my personal hell by my parents. After awhile, I figured they’d think I was gone or dead or something, so I used to go out with Mrs. Browne, keeping a sharp eye for any sign of someone who might know me, to avoid being “discovered.”

I have been doing what Mrs. Browne said to do, but I’m getting really nervous about this, as she said that this curious disease was reaching into every household with dire results. But, I don’t know how long I can stay here. I am going to at least have to go down to the kitchen pantry to see if there is anything left, since my food supply is gone. The water still works, but that is not solving the pains in my stomach from not eating. Mrs. Browne always kept a well-stocked pantry. Maybe she is down there. I really wish we could go to the library. Time is beginning to drag interminably without the distraction of my books.

I am going to take my backpack with me, and my journal. I’ve become quite addicted to writing in it. I’ll be able to write of what I see and hear, while I’m heating up some food.

Later,

Arthur

*********************

11:00 a.m.

I am sitting at the old oak kitchen table, alone. I had left my secret attic and cautiously tiptoed down the stairs, hovering on the landing at the bottom of the stairs, listening for signs of other tenants. The house was silent. Unlocking and easing the door open to my attic and allowing myself to pass into the third floor storage closet past the shelves of linens and stored holiday clutter wasn’t difficult, but I found myself holding my breath, as I quietly turned the handle of the closet door to see the hallway leading to the main stairs.

The hall was empty. I walked silently down the hall, except for an occasional creak of impatient oak from the decrepit oak floorboards under my feet. The house was deafeningly in its silence. The stairs were empty. I mean empty. There was no sign of any of the cats. Usually at least one of them is lounging on the stairs, waiting for some excitement. It was a surreal experience like some of the books I’ve been reading lately, like I’m the last person alive on the planet or something.

Anyway, I kept going and paused only for a moment at the second floor landing. I listened, but did not hear anything and only saw motionless closed doors. The kitchen is down the stairs to the first floor and to the back of the house. I kept going noticing there was no one at all in any of the rooms. Even the old grandfather’s clock, Mrs. Browne said was made by someone in her family long ago, was silent, the pendulum hanging motionless.

I entered the kitchen where I am now sitting to write this. There was a note on the oak table, scarred with many generations of use. Mrs. Browne told me her family used to be furniture makers in the old days. I don’t know anything about making furniture, but she did have me polish this table frequently with oil to keep it shining and clean. The note said this:

“Arthur,

The other tenants have either left to go to family’s homes, those that left before the virus his, or have died and been taken away by the clean up crews. They think it is just me that is left here. They do not know about you. I refused to leave. I’ve seen no one else for a couple of weeks. I’m thinking the virus may have passed us by, as it is eerily quiet and I do not think I am becoming ill. I feel fine, at least for now. I’ve gone out to find food. I am also going to stop by and see if it is possible to get into the library. I miss my new books to read. I expect you do too.

See you soon,

Mrs. Browne”

I couldn’t see any date, so I don’t know when she wrote this. I checked the pantry for food. It was quite bare, lacking even a can of Spam or green beans. It looks like someone had been rummaging around rather violently in here sometime recently. There is a little spilled rice scattered about the floor. There is nothing else to eat or drink in the kitchen. Except, I found the bottle of brandy, in its usual hiding place, behind the cleaning supplies, where Mrs. Browne kept it stashed where the other tenants wouldn’t find it, for her private imbibing. I took a swig, I was so hungry, but it burned like heck, so I put it back in the cleaning closet.

I can see the back door to the kitchen. Someone has broken out the glass from the door. Maybe that’s how the food thieves got in. I wonder what happened to Mrs. Browne. I hope she is o.k. It is so quiet. Kind of deadly silent. I hope I’m not really the last one alive on earth. My stomach pains are getting worse. I am so hungry. I am going to have to go out and see about finding some food and figure out what happened to Mrs. Browne.

I’m taking my pack and journal with me. There were some extra pencils still in the kitchen. I’ve taken those too. I have a feeling I might not get back here very soon.

Later…

Arthur