The Journals of Harold Black

The Journal of Harold Black Undated Black leather bound, handwritten, 6" x 8.25" We learned quickly that dogs could be turned, but livestock observed to have come in contact with the infection have simply died. Slowly, yes, and painfully, yes, but corpses all, their flesh inanimate, their deaths final. I did not yet have the opportunity to perform an autopsy on any of the infected animals, and we avoid eating their flesh. The infection may spread through consumption of the tissue, though I have posited that it may, like rabies, be spread specifically via saliva. I have not eaten meat in some time; I am always hungry. Supplies run short. The feeling of desperation is almost claustrophobic. I was prepared for this eventuality, but perhaps not enough. No one will come through this as they were before. Gruesome metal traps are set up around my camp, to disable the wandering sick, and warn of their approach. What folly. When first one of the infected was drawn to the trap it made such a noise as it thrashed and howled against the metal jaws that I was surrounded for most of a day. They clawed at the boards of the shed in which I hid, clawed the nails from their fingers, the skin from their hands catching on the wood and peeling off in long, jagged strips. At first fear over took me, and I prayed for my life. Then I realized that the situation offered a unique chance to study the creatures, perhaps, even to capture one. I have procured the ropes and chains I will need, and next time, I will have one for more in-depth study. They think it is I they hunt, but it is they being hunted. I intend to begin with an autopsy of the brain. I find my fear replaced with excitement, but I must not let it distract me. Those who are not cautious but sprint toward their own graves.