text: The final entry in the notebook that I found him with: ------------ “Write everything down,” it says, a part-filled notebook of weathered yellow paper. Brittle like Autumn leaves. I open the pages. A diary? No. Just events, mundane moments of a day. Every two or three pages: “Write everything down.” Does this belong to me? I take the notebook and extract the pen that is clipped to the ring binder. I do as it says. I write all this down. A bedroom, dust-covered. I walk around and try to find something familiar. Is this my room? A wardrobe stands tall and fading. Words are scratched into the mahogany: “Wear something from here.” I open the wardrobe. It’s empty. A pile of clothes lie on the floor and I get dressed into them. Flannel shirt. Jeans. They smell of wet earth. Outside the bedroom. Hallway. I shout, “Hello?” No one answers. This is my house. Maybe? Off the hallway, a bathroom. Mouldy and unclean. Rusty appliances. On the sink lies a toothbrush and an empty tube of toothpaste. I lick my teeth and taste my breath. Must buy toothpaste. On the wall above the sink, words in this handwriting, with an arrow crudely drawn pointing to a cracked mirror, reads: “This is your face.” My face. Grey beard, grey hair, grey eyes. Grey skin. I look unwell. And old. Lines criss-cross from the corners of my eyes and run in deep channels on my forehead. I must be in my eighties. I want to cry. I do not remember yesterday. Downstairs, by the front door. A note reads: “Do not let them in. If you see them, hide.” In the living room, empty cups stand like soldiers on surfaces, on the floor. Fruit flies gather in the air like cloudburst. On the coffee table, a framed photo. One half covered by a note nailed to the brown wooden frame. The uncovered half shows a face. My face? Yes, from the mirror, but younger, happier. The note says: “This is Jean. You love her.” I bend the note back. In the photo, stood next to me, a woman. Blonde hair, eyes blue and inviting, a scar on her lip. She is beautiful. “Jean! Hello? Jean are you here?” I ask the house. The house does not reply. Next to the photo, a passport. I leaf through the pages. My face again. Stony and staring. My name there: “Andrew.” Or Andy? Andrew and Jean. Andy and Jean. I do not know. I like Andy. The word feels right in my mouth. My stomach rumbles. The next room, the kitchen. Empty cans and packets pile high. I cannot see the floor. I wade through rubbish like a swamp. Mouldy food gathers on mouldy worktops. I open the cupboards. All empty. Through the kitchen window, the garden. Overgrown. A note on the back door: “Be careful, they could be anywhere.” When did I last eat? I turn to the living room but it catches my eye. There, through the kitchen window, caught in the briars, a note. It is tied by string to a red balloon that hangs low and listless. A dull red dirigible covered in the dirt of a long road travelled. The balloon seems shrivelled, a belly half-full of helium. The note flaps in the breeze as though waving to me. I open the back door, slowly, remembering the warning. Was there another warning about outside? Long grass tickles my hands. Hidden in the grass I see the body of a cat. It has been there a while, wet decaying skin lathered over dark grey bone like a liquid blanket. I grab the balloon-tied note and run inside. The note says: “There are survivors of The Wipe and we remember everything. We have food and shelter.” And then a map. Directions. I do not know to where. The Wipe? They have food. I feel my ribs. Bone, like the cat. I tie the balloon to my wrist. Kitchen to living room to hallway, I walk. Where am I? A note on the front door: “Do not let them in. If you see them, hide.” See who? How did I get here? They must be crazy. I do not know where I am. I do not know who might be upstairs. I must write everything down. To remember. I leave the house. Close the door with a soft click and run into the street. Hide behind a car, looking back. No one follows. A red balloon with a note is tied to my wrist. I read it. That’s right, food, shelter, that’s where I’m going. The directions give street signs, markers. I see none of them here. The roads are empty. I can hear my heartbeat. Cars are parked, some neat and orderly, some left abandoned. I peer into one. A person, man or woman I do not know, slumped on the steering wheel. Skin rotting, maggots stream from eyes and mouth. I vomit, acid on tongue. I run. Run run run. I see a street sign: “Warburton Street.” I know that name but from where? And then more bodies. More bodies, lying in the street. Decaying flesh and exposed bone and the smell makes me sick. I go down Warburton Street. Leafy suburb peels into farmland. In the fields, more bodies still. Horses with bloated bellies. A sound? I leap a fence and hide behind the corpse of a once-was mare. I look. In the street from whence I came runs a man. He wears only his underwear. His arms and legs are thin and knotted like rope. His belly distended. His eyes wild and his mouth foaming. “Where am I? Where am I?” he screams, hoarse and desperate I cower. Where am I? This notebook. It says to write everything down. I must write everything down. The man is over the fence. He has seen me. The balloon! Why is this tied to me? He saw it! My arm is bleeding. The man caught me and screamed at me and bit my arm. He said he was hungry. Said he would eat me. I kicked him down and ran and turning back saw him licking the open rot of the dead mare. I am glad he is behind me, but I pity him. I find a road, hedges tall and emerald all about me. A balloon is tied to my arm with a note. A note with directions. I read it. Food, shelter. I am hungry. I am on a road. I hold a book that tells me to write. I have read horrible things and desperately want to go home. I do not know how long I have been walking now. I think I have been following the balloon tethered to me. I do not trust it now. I think I was happier at home. I untie it and it struggles to fly. It slowly drops to the ground. Red against grey asphalt. I keep walking, maybe I will find help. My feet hurt. I pass through a small hamlet, four or five sandstone houses, squat and hidden among hedgerows. There is a red pillar box. There are dead bodies. In the street, there, someone breathing? A woman, skeletal, holds a bundle of cloth to her breast. I do not want to know what it contains. “What happened here? Can you stand? Can you talk?” I ask. “I don’t know. Who are you? Please, please help me,” she pleads. I do not know how, and so I ask her. “Just kill me,” she says. I cannot. I apologise and she only nods. She looks so tired, her eyes vacant. I must find help, must remember. I should write everything down. Fields now, lined with tall hedges. In the hedges, balloons. Red balloons. One or two, then more and more. Some full, some sagging, some popped and strewn like confetti. I follow the hedges round and there, a farmhouse. Smoke billows from a chimney. I walk there. Large and angular, red brick and grey slate roof, cars parked in the driveway. The door is white, paint peeling. A sign on the door reads: “Garstang House”. I know that name. Is this my home? I knock. A woman answers. She is short, with white hair, eyes blue and inviting, a scar on her lip. She is beautiful. She watches me write but says nothing. She wears a name badge. It says: “Andi.” A man brushes her aside, with a calm hand upon her shoulder. He looks at me, disbelieving. He asks me my name, watches me write. My name? “Gene,” I say, although I do not know why. He asks me how I got here, if I found a balloon. I tell him no. I do not know how I got here. He looks at me curiously now. Can I trust him? I will apologise and leave. This is not my home. He stopped me. Said I must come in, that I will be safe now. That they have food. I am so hungry. He said he was surprised that there are others. Others? That woman, Andi? Yes Andi, she is in the hall and is smiling. Other people appear from doorways, on the landing. Some wear name badges. Do they all live here? The man asks me for this book. I tell him no, that I must write everything down here. He says I do not need to anymore, that I’m safe now. That I’m home. Home? This is my home? And Andi, is she? Gene and Andi. I want to cry. I do not remember yesterday. I will give him the book. I am home now. Goodbye.