The Journal of David Harper

September 2nd, 2031, Faith Amidst the Fall

I, David Harper, never thought I'd be keeping a journal again at my age. But here I am, scribbling down thoughts like a teenager. It feels strange, but I need this. I need something to hold on to. The world out there isn't what it used to be. Chaos is creeping closer, the silence pressing down, filling the air with dread. I can feel it closing in on us.

Martha's still with me, thank God. We lean on each other, but it's hard when everything you know has crumbled. Sometimes, I don't even recognize who I am anymore. Who was I before all of this? Who am I now, in this fractured world?

This journal—it's a lifeline. It reminds me of the man God made me to be. It keeps me sane, but it's getting harder to hold back the fear. Every time I pick up this pen, the weight of it all presses down on me. I write to remember who I am, but the world outside makes me doubt anything good is left.

Still, I know I have to depend on God, now more than ever. Living in dependence on Him isn't just an option anymore—it's survival. After all those years of trying to do things on my own terms, trusting in my own strength, I've learned how fragile human effort can be. You come to realize how desperately you need Him when everything around you falls apart. Life, even in these times, is about learning to work with God, not apart from Him.

The silence feels suffocating, dread settling deep in my bones. The chaos is right outside our door, lurking in the shadows, waiting. I know we have to trust God in this mess, but the fear is real. Still, I hold on to Psalm 23: "Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for You are with me." It's the only thing that keeps me from breaking down completely.

It's been over seven years since everything changed. The world I knew—the life Martha and I had shared during our forty-two years of marriage and the retirement we had worked so hard for—is long gone. It all vanished in the space of days, leaving nothing but ruins and shadows. The infection swept through faster than anyone could have imagined, turning neighbors and friends into mindless husks. Those creatures... they're everywhere now, relentless in their hunger, stripped of all that made them human.

Early on, survivors began calling them "Zeeks." I'm not sure who started it—some soldier or news anchor, perhaps—but the name stuck. Maybe it's easier than calling them by what they really are: infected souls, lost and twisted by the virus. "Zeeks" keeps them at a distance, gives us something to call them without confronting the horror of it. Now, we talk about them like they're just another obstacle, not our former friends, not people we knew.

Our daughters, Jenny and Susan, live nearby. Jenny's married with a little boy, Nathan. He's nine, reminds me of Jenny at that age—always into something. Susan, our oldest, is still single, off traveling the world like she always wanted. I just pray she's safe wherever she is.

Ever since the outbreak hit, nothing's been the same. The air feels heavier, like it's holding back a storm. The virus came out of nowhere. Some say it was caused by China; others blame terrorists. But who cares anymore? The only thing that matters now is survival.

The creatures the virus left behind—they aren't human anymore. We call them "Zeeks." They hunt relentlessly, drawn by the scent of blood. If they catch your scent, you're done for. Every night, we hear them—shuffling feet, broken glass, the hisses and groans that send chills down your spine.

For us, it all began on a bright, sunny day in Bellevue, Nebraska. The sky was clear—no clouds, just endless blue. Martha and I were at home with our dogs, Lizzie and Gracie. Everything felt normal. We were watching BBQ Shoot Out, Martha's favorite cooking show. Then, without warning, the show disappeared, replaced by a message: "EMERGENCY ALERT SYSTEM, Please Stand By."

The emergency siren began to wail throughout the neighborhood. Suddenly, the President appeared on the screen, his face tense and filled with fear. Just as he started to speak, the broadcast cut to the streets outside the White House. My blood ran cold.

The creatures were everywhere. People ran, but they couldn't escape. It reminded me of Matthew 24, when Jesus warned us about the end times. Watching that screen, I couldn't help but wonder—is this it? Is this what He warned us about?

The camera showed one of those creatures grabbing a woman. It was brutal. Then the screen went black, the President came back, but we could hear the fear in his voice. He said everything was under control, but the look in his eyes told a different story.

Then the power went out, and the TV went dark. Martha quickly slid next to me on the couch, her hands trembling as she grabbed mine, her eyes wide with fear. Lizzie jumped to her feet, ears perked, sensing the tension. Gracie, still clueless, tried to play as if nothing was wrong. Outside, chaos erupted—people were running, screaming. Some had already turned into Zeeks. A man stumbled out of his car, bleeding, only to be swarmed by the Zeeks. His screams filled the air as they tore him apart.

"Martha, lock all the doors and windows!" I shouted. I ran to the bedroom closet, hands shaking as I prayed the safe would open. By God's grace, it clicked, and I handed Martha a gun.

"I don't want it," she whispered, her eyes full of fear.

"I know, but if they get in..." I left the rest unsaid.

She looked at me, torn between fear and faith. "Maybe if it goes off by accident, it'll scare them away," I joked. It was a lame attempt to lighten the mood, but it's all I had. Martha wasn't amused, but sometimes a bad joke is the only thing standing between you and the end of the world.

Martha reached for her phone, but the lines were dead. We were cut off from the world, from our daughters. I prayed they were safe, but the fear gnawed at me.

"We have to trust God," I said, more to myself than to her. "Lock everything. No one gets in."

I've come to realize that even in the darkest moments, there is still something more. His grace is sufficient—that truth echoes in me daily, especially when I feel weak. For when I am weak, then I am strong. There's a strange power in knowing you're not in control. It's in those moments, when my strength is gone, that I feel God's presence the most. His power meets me in my weakness.

Each day, I try to live in expectation, waiting to see what God will do. In Him, we live, move, and have our being—and even in this broken world, that remains true. Life, even now, can be seen as an adventure with Him, an opportunity to trust Him more deeply. Every moment feels like a step into the unknown, but knowing He is with me makes all the difference.

As I write this, I still don't know what's coming next. But I hold on to my faith. The Lord is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Even when the world feels like it's ending, I believe He's with us. I in Him, and He in me. That's what keeps me going.