Final Days

A New Era

Journal Entry – Day 8

I packed my bag last night. Not much—just what I could carry. A few clothes, some food, a knife I found in the garage, and Dad's journal. It's all I'll need.

Mom thinks I'm just going to see some friends, but I have other plans. I waited until she was asleep, then snuck out. I'm not coming back. Not until I find the truth.

The Commonwealth is sending a supply truck to Stockton. I overheard some soldiers talking about it, saying it was a routine run. I figured it's my best chance to get out of here without being noticed.

I've never been outside the Commonwealth walls before. I've only heard stories, and none of them are good. But I have to do this. For Dad. For me.

I slipped into the back of the truck just before dawn, hiding behind some crates. It's cramped, smells like old food, and the metal floor is cold, but I don't care. I'll be in Stockton soon, and from there, I'll head to Sacramento on foot.

Journal Entry – Day 9

The truck ride was long and bumpy. I barely slept, too nervous about being caught. The soldiers in the front don't seem to know I'm here, but every time the truck stops, my heart races.

We made it to Stockton around noon. I waited until the soldiers were busy unloading supplies, then slipped out and ducked into an alley. My legs are stiff, but I'm moving. I'm free.

Stockton is a ghost town, or what's left of it. The streets are cracked, overgrown with weeds. Buildings are crumbling, windows shattered. It's eerily quiet, like the world ended and no one told me.

I found a map in an old convenience store. It's faded, but I can still make out the route to Sacramento. It's about 50 miles away. A long walk, but I've got time.

I'll start tomorrow morning. Tonight, I'm sleeping in the back of the store. The door locks, and there's still some canned food on the shelves. Not much, but enough to keep me going.

I keep thinking about Dad. About how he must have felt, walking through places like this, always looking over his shoulder, always on edge. I wonder if he was scared, like I am. Or if he was just tired of it all.

Journal Entry – Day 10

I woke up early, packed what I could, and started walking. The air is cool, the sky overcast. It's like the world knows what I'm about to do and wants to make it harder.

The road out of Stockton is cracked, littered with debris and abandoned cars. I stick to the side, moving quickly but quietly. I've heard stories about raiders in these parts, but I haven't seen anyone yet. Just birds, and the occasional rustle in the bushes.

Sacramento is still a long way off. I can see the mountains in the distance, but they never seem to get any closer. My feet are sore, but I push on. I have to.

I'm thinking about Dad again. Wondering what he was like when he was my age. Did he ever imagine his son would be following in his footsteps, trying to find him? Did he ever imagine he'd have a son at all?

The journal is in my bag, but I don't need to read it right now. I know what it says. I know what he went through. And I know I have to do this. For him. For Mom.

For myself.

Journal Entry – Day 11

I'm getting closer. I can feel it. The air is thicker here, the silence heavier. It's like the land itself remembers what happened, remembers the blood and the fear.

I found a place to sleep tonight—a small, abandoned farmhouse just off the road. The roof is caved in, and the windows are gone, but it's dry and hidden from view. I'll be safe here, at least for the night.

I've been thinking about what I'll do when I reach Sacramento. About what I'll find. Part of me is hoping I'll find Dad's grave, that he's resting somewhere peaceful, away from all this madness.

But another part of me, a darker part, is hoping I'll find something else. Something that proves he's still out there, still fighting, still alive.

I don't know which is worse.

Tomorrow, I'll reach the city. Tomorrow, I'll know the truth.