Document 5274.45-024.NA107.TMpl-Cltp.16947.0087

Archivist's Note:

The following document was discovered in a fire safe at archaeological site 16947. This site remained sparsely inhabited through to the reconstuction era, though its population had slowly declined to below the threhhold required for long-term viability. A largely intact water and sewer system maintained by a combination of wind and tidal power was discovered to remain in an operable state to this day. It has been designated historical landmark 16947-001, and is recognized as one of the marvels of the fallen world. 

The three similar letters referenced by this document have not been recovered.

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Dear Son,

I've already written letters to your mother and sister, and also one to Charlie. Realistically, I doubt that you'll ever get this, but if there's a chance, I know I couldn't leave you without some kind of a farewell.

I'm sure there is so much that you'd want me to say to you, and I could never get it all down on paper even if I had all the time in the world to work on it. As it is, I have only a few stolen moments to make these notes since your mother would try to stop me if she knew what I were planning. 

Things here have been better than a lot of places. I hate to say it but we try not to talk about you any more. If we don't talk about you, we can pretend. The last news we got out of the cities made it sound like a war zone. I know that if anyone is clever enough to survive in that kind of a world, it would be you, but we also know that so many have died, and there isn't really much hope. We miss you.

There were a few days of bad chaos, but fortunately someone had the foresight to open the drawbridge and block off the other two bridges, and that cut us off enough that we missed the worst of it. After a couple of weeks using the new school as an emergency shelter, things had died down enough that the sheriffs told people to start going back to their homes. 

A lot of people have just gone to ground so we don't know how many people are left alive on the island, but we're guessing between those who were killed and those who weren't home when they cut us off from the shore, there's around five thousand people left. We've made some good steps in organizing a sort of town council and militia. It's surprising how willing everyone has been to work together and share what they have instead of hoarding. Eric across the street gave me one of his rifles and ammunition. I haven't fired a gun since ROTC some forty years ago. You don't really forget how, but your muscles work a lot differently when you're twenty than when you're sixty-four.

The council put me to work trying to keep the services working over as much of the island as I can. The areas with municipal water and sewer have mostly full service now, for a while at least. When no one cares if you dump raw sewage in the bay any more, sewers are easy. Of course, our house still has a private well and septic. At least the septic works on its own. I've been working with a couple of other people to build steam engines to run the well pumps. 

If you made it back here, you must have seen what we did to the bridges. It's a strange thing to be proud of, I guess, but I played my part in that. The engineers from the drafting company in town worked out the best places to place the explosives and I did the formulating. You always wanted to know if I could use all that chemistry knowledge to make bombs. Well, now you know. The biggest part of the work, though, wasn't me, but I bet you can guess who it was. I was telling the truth all those years when I said that old farmer John from the produce stand was a retired World War 2 rocket scientist.

April has been staying with us since it all began. She was one of the last to make it over the drawbridge before they opened it. It took five men to stop her from leaving, though, since Charlie never came back from work that day. She's been so strong through all of this and a great comfort to your mother and I. She's sure Charlie is going to make it back to her some day. I honestly think he's more likely to come back than you are -- not that I like his chances more, but I think he's got more reason to come. I sort of hope you don't come home, not if you can find somewhere safe and just stay there instead.

If you do come, though, I'm sorry that I won't be there to see it, which is where I've been avoiding coming to with this letter. You see, the pharmacies ran out of my medications about two months ago. There wasn't a huge demand for them, except for the painkillers -- but I gave them up when this all started. I can hide the pain for the most part, and I scavenged a wheelchair so that I can stay off my feet most of the time.  But the others, for my blood pressure and cholesterol, those finally ran out too.  There's a pain in my chest now that doesn't go away. It's getting worse.

In all the chaos, we didn't understand for a long time, but a few weeks ago, Mrs. Bradley down the street decided she'd had enough and cut her wrists. That's when we found out that you didn't have to be bitten. As it happened, I was the one who saw her first, and had to put her down.

Without my medicines, technically, I might be fine for years. But I also might have a heart attack tonight. I know that my blood pressure is creeping up. 

I already told you how I feel about dying when I had the surgery on my arm.  If it were just me, I'd try to soldier on. It doesn't really bother me, the idea of turning into one of them. I know that when it happens to me, I will be beyond caring one way or the other. 

But it's not just me, and I am not willing to put my wife and daughter in that kind of risk, and I do not want to put either one of them in the position of having to put me back down. 

That's why tomorrow afternoon at lunchtime, I'm going to slip away from the maintenance crew, and walk down to the pier. I took our old zodiac down there a few days ago. The bottom still isn't sealed, but that won't matter. I'm going to paddle out into the bay as far as my strength will take me, and then let the waves take me. Maybe starvation and exposure isn't the most dignified way to die, but then, what is?

So that's what became of your dear old dad. I'm sorry I never got to say that last goodbye. I want you to know that whatever happens to you, I love you and I am so very proud of you. I'm sorry my generation couldn't leave you a better world than this one.  Whatever happiness this world has to give, I hope you find it.

Love,
Dad