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Prologue

Sleep is for dreamers, the weak and the dead. Or so that's what I once thought. Once upon a time I was a child of eight, with the energy of four hellions coursing through my veins, fighting for room amongst the lifeblood that pumped through a heart that seemed to always keep an elevated pace. The need for sleep was nil. Rest was irrelevant in every facet of my being. I wanted to be red-lined, at my limit and pressing to exceed it all the time. This continued through my pre-teen years and even into my teens. I was plum full of shit in more ways than one. But as is told in many a story, all good things must come to an end. Rivers dry up, mountains crumble and the sun burns out. What was once a great flash of brilliance that could be relied upon with each passing day winks out in a moment of weakness. It passes into a land of the forgotten where it is transformed into a mere memory only to be recalled and reminisced by those that witnessed it first hand and didn't consider it a nuisance. But I digress. Back to a more direct route. Sleep - as seen by me - was utterly useless. Now things have turned one eighty from what was considered routine and normal five weeks ago. I want more than ever to fall into those fields of slumber and let the waving greenery grasp my body tight. To pull me into the earth from which it feeds and convert me into the nutrients they need to survive. In short; I don't want to be here anymore.

But don't let me claim to be a victim here as I inform you of my current situation. There are many victims. Many of them I knew in the old world, when the living thrived. When men and women showered, brushed and dressed in the morning before consuming large amounts of caffeine in the way of coffee, tea and those fancy energy drinks that were all the craze. When men and women left work in the evening, either stopping at the local tip shop (that's what my father called the bar, "Tipping a beer at the tip shop, son,") or heading straight home to enjoy that nice lukewarm meal. A meal that spent a half hour on the table before they decided to meander through the door complaining of a long, grueling day at work and how tired they were. When men and women played the loving role of mom and dad, giving their children a hug and kissing them on the forehead before bed. Maybe reading them a story before wishing them sweet dreams. When men and women made passionate love, trying not to wake those children that were likely not sleeping but rather tip-toeing through the kitchen to sneak a glass of soda, pausing when they hear a mysterious moaning slip beneath mommy and daddy's bedroom door. Little did those sweet, caring parents know that they should have strayed from the path. Don't let that gold band on your finger plug the hole of a potential side piece. They should have instead detoured to the local tip shop, found the shortest skirt or the tightest jeans in the room, and screwed the hell out of them in a dirty bathroom stall while trying to memorize the "for a good time, call..." number etched into the stall. It's those feisty, laws-of-marriage breaking adulterers that would have lived life to the fullest before the end of the old world gave way to the beginning of the new. It would be they who could look any member of this new society in the face now and say "I said fuck it, fucked it, and I'm glad I did." They are the ones that are strongest in this world now. They're the ones that can brave this storm, not those that dusted the television set and blew their nose only in tissues. The men that had hair on their balls and the women that meant business when they said no.

The weak are worth little now. They are the dreamers and the dead all rolled into one. If they haven't yet met the end, every passing moment should be cherished by them as it is just a matter of time before that bright light they once called a happy paint-by-number life collapses to solid black. Nothingness.

I do consider myself one of the strong ones. One of the risk takers that brings fists to a fight when everyone else is pulling hair. I consider my balls properly groomed with wonderful tufts of man-hair. I have survived what many would consider too atrocious for the human eye. Visions of wrongdoing that get fed through the eye, plants itself directly into the brain and scrambles the working mechanics to the point of rendering a once thriving machine useless. I have seen many people lose their minds and do awful things not only to themselves, but to others. Sometimes this world - this new world, I mean - is too much for the weakened stomach. Like a healthy dose of curdled milk gulped down by the unsuspecting lactose intolerant. I've seen people put a 12 gauge shotgun to the head of another and pull the trigger, the result a work of abstract art containing crimson and brain matter. A sliver of skull here and there. I've also witnessed someone turn the gun on themselves, figuring the quickest way was the easiest way. Not always the case, my friend. Pills, knives, guns, crushing, you name it. I've seen it all. I still wander the unpleasant land, though. I still walk the streets and hide among the dwellings. My stomach is the biggest problem. Not weak, mind you. Just empty. The hardest part about the new world is filling your aching stomach.

Anyway. I'm sure you are wondering what this new world is, why it is, and how it became what it is. I can't say I have all the answers for you, but I promise to do my best.

In the old world I always pondered these thoughts: What if everyone on earth died except me and one lucky lady? What if I then write a story, any old story, and treated that copy like humanity as we rebuilt it would come to depend on this story for centuries to come? My lady and I would repopulate the earth, passing this story down to children, grandchildren, great grandchildren and so on. (Or are they just great children, nothing grand about them?) Eventually it would spread like wildfire, it's importance beamed into the minds of everyone who ever became. Not knowing any better, they would believe what I have written. Whether I said they were created from a grain of salt, or that I fathered them from the beginning, taking great effort to plant my seed from the first moment possible. My children creating children, a lovely incestuous story for the masses. Or...I fed that grain of salt to their mother and she shat them out on a rainy night in April. Whatever. I wrote it, I said it to be true, and they know no better.

But I will refrain from such godly activities in these pages. I will write what actually happened from what I refer to as Day One. It wasn't the day I was born into this world, but the day I began seeing the old world take a turn for the worse. What I saw that morning, into the evening, and for the five weeks leading up to this night. Whatever happened before that day will be of no significance to these scribblings I leave for you all. I just hope you can all learn from what I have witnessed and somehow, some day, reverse it.

I consider myself special in a way. Possibly unique to the point of being the sole being that walks this planet with such abilities. I won't get into those now, as that will come later when you're ready to hear it.

Right now, I take you to Day One.