Dead End Chronicles (Book 1): Dead End Journal Read online

  Dead End Journal

  Book 1 of the

  Dead End Chronicles

  by

  Alex San Lyra

  This is a work of fiction. All characters appearing in this work are fictional. However, several characters may or may not partially reflect certain aspects of real people.

  Copyright © 2015 by Alex San Lyra

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Cover art by Alex San Lyra

  A very special thanks to my beloved wife,

  Alessandra Denofrio, for putting up with me.

  I know I can be a real pain in the ass sometimes.

  ...

  Oh, and I must also thank her

  for taking on the painstaking task

  of reviewing this book with me.

  Entry 01 February 19th, 47 Something new

  Entry 02 February 20th, 47 Life in Harptown

  Entry 03 February 22nd, 47 Hunting day

  Entry 04 February 28th, 47 Quick update

  Entry 05 March 1st, 47 Boys will be boys

  Entry 06 March 2nd, 47 Party

  Entry 07 March 9th, 47 How to end the world in a few easy steps

  Entry 08 March 11th, 47 Search and rescue

  Entry 09 March 14th, 47 Hunting trials and a letter

  Entry 10 March 15th, 47 Town meeting and other stuff

  Entry 11 March 17th, 47 A formal complaint

  Entry 12 March 18th, 47 Trap

  Entry 13 March 19th, 47 Another quick update

  Entry 14 March 24th, 47 Tradeoff

  Entry 15 March 27th, 47 Tipping the scales

  Entry 16 March 28th, 47 No looking back

  Entry 17 April 4th, 47 New horizons

  NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  Dear reader, before you read any further, I must tell you a thing or two about this book... and myself. Bear with me here...

  Firstly, I’m a newbie in two different ways. This is not only my first book, but also my first “ebook”. I have been writing books for many years now, but I’ve never published anything... until now. And dealing with the whole ebook publishing process was something of a challenge for me. Please take that into account as you read onwards. I will try to improve the book, with regards to formatting and other stuff. I'll also try to keep you all posted on these improvements.

  Secondly, I'm a man... a straight guy... thirty-six years old... and the main character of this book is a girl... seventeen years old. The book is supposed to be her journal. And so, here I am writing a journal as if I were a teen girl. Weird right? I am a feminist, I like to think that I'm very much in touch with my feminine side and I'm constantly trying to understand women, BUT I will not pretend that I've achieved such understanding. I think no man ever will (sadly). I guess what I'm saying is, maybe it's best if you think of this book as my feminine side speaking up... or breaking out... if that's not too weird for you.

  Finally, we all have different facets that compose the whole that is ourselves... a feminine side, responsible for our emotions... an inner child that never grows up no matter how old you get... a dark side that always gets you into trouble... a cold logical side that usually only takes charge after you've gotten in trouble... When you're alone, have you ever started talking to yourself? Maybe that's your logical side getting into an argument with your dark side. And no matter how much we think we know a person, in our minds we really only have an idealized image of what we think they are. We all have our own personal views on people, objects, events... even on the world itself. Do we all really live in the same reality, or do our minds entrap us in our own little worlds? With that in mind, I hereby set you free to delve into the world of the Dead End Journal.

  Entry 01

  February 19th, 47

  Something new

  So... I guess I should start with "Hi".

  Hello Journal, my name is Dana... I mean Daniela...

  Today I decided to start a journal. I've never had a journal before, so bear with me...

  My name is Daniela Brightman. They call me Dana, for short. I'm seventeen years old, going on eighteen, in April. Today, I’ve decided to start this journal... it’s actually just a notebook I picked up at the storehouse. It has a picture of a traffic sign on the cover, with the words “Dead End”. It seems kind of appropriate for me...

  The Dead End Journal.

  The only problem is, I don't really know how to do this... I've never been the kind of girl that kept diaries. Even when I was little, I was more into playing with the boys, you know? Sometimes people even thought I WAS a boy, with my short hair, dirty clothes and scraped knees... man... seems like a lifetime ago now. You see, that’s the thing. Recently, I've caught myself spacing out a lot, thinking about all the shit that's gone down in my life. It's crazy, when you stop to think about it. And these daydreams make me feel like my mind is a junkyard, full of loose, useless thoughts.

  The other day, I spoke with a friend about it. Singer, the school teacher. His name is actually Diego Donofrio, but we nicknamed him after his voice, he’s an awesome singer. He’s also really smart, a great listener and always has some good advice, when it comes to... well, life and stuff. It’s kinda weird. I don’t usually feel comfortable talking about emotions, memories and that sort of thing. But somehow, I always end up pouring my soul out when I’m around him. I think Singer would have made a great therapist... in another life.

  Anyway, when I told him about my lack of focus, he suggested I started a journal. Of course, I totally rejected the thought at first, but he was quite insistent. “You should at least give it a try, Dana,” he told me, “Writing about yourself helps you organize your mind, sort through your feelings. What’ve you got to lose?” And so, here I am, clumsily trying to organize my mind and sort through my feelings. I’m no good at this and there’s a lot to process.

  My mother died when I was three. Cancer. Can’t say I remember her at all. My father eventually remarried and had a son, my baby brother, Xandy. Then my stepmother also died. We lost her to the dementia disease... I was eleven, I think. And then my father... went missing. About a year ago, he went on a hunting trip alone and never came back.

  Sometimes, I wish he had just fucking died, like my stepmom. At least, then there wouldn’t be any “uncertainty”. Not knowing what happened, if he’s dead or not... that’s what really kills me. My mind keeps playing tricks on me. Every now and then, I still think of him showing up, out of the blue. “Hey Sweetie,” he’d say, “Sorry I’m late. Lost track of time out there.”

  Wasting time thinking how things might have been, or why they are the way they are... it’s not for me. Shit happens. You dust your shoulders and keep on moving. That’s why all this “need” to look back on life is driving me crazy. I’m not quite sure what changed, why I feel this way. Maybe I’m ready to accept the fact that I’m really on my own now... that my dad isn’t coming back. Am I ready to move on? Damnit, I dunno... And how does one look back on a life like mine anyway?

  At first, I figured I’d start from the beginning and go from there. Just like any other story, mine must have a beginning, right? But... when was that? I don’t think I can even remember the right order of events. It’s all jumbled up and lost to me. And it’s such a daunting task too... putting all that down on paper, how the world went haywire and my life with it. It’s all just so fucked up.

  The weather went crazy, society broke down, the disease almost wiped us out... it’s like a fucking zombie apocalypse out ther
e, with the demented running around. They say the world ended. I find it hard to argue the point... and yet, I’m still here, aren’t I? Still alive.

  I keep telling myself that, ultimately, I live for my baby brother, because he depends on me, but I dunno... Is that really it? Sometimes, I get the feeling I never stop to think about things because, if I did, I’d only end up realizing there’s just no point to any of it. Man, that’s depressing. Maybe having a journal isn’t for me after all. But, at the same time, it’s just not in me to give up... on life or the journal. It’s not that I’m too proud to give in or that I have a logical reason to continue... Actually, I can’t explain it other than to say it’s genetic. My father was like that, he never gave up either. That’s partially why I kept believing he was still alive out there.

  Maybe he’s still watching over me, only in a different way... Oh, how I’d like to believe that. I don’t know what I believe in anymore... cuz this world feels a lot like hell to me, with real live demons and all... Damn, I wish I could be cheerful all the time, like Singer. I don’t know how he does it... I wonder how he’d tackle this journal. You know, maybe I’m going about this whole thing the wrong way. Instead of trying to solve all my emotional problems in one go, maybe I should just focus on the simple things. Let’s see...

  For starters, I’m currently living in a small fortified community called Harptown. Population of about five hundred people. It’s actually an old abandoned military base, from before the government fell. After the soldiers left, a rich family that owned a farm near here, moved in. The Harpers... good people. George Harper is the leader of the family, he pretty much runs things around here. I’ve been living here for a little over a year and a half now.

  I even have a job now, as a bowhunter. Modesty aside, I’m pretty handy with a bow and arrow. My father’s legacy. He managed to convince the town council that bows are sometimes better than guns. “Bullets are effective, sure,” he argued, “but gunshots are loud. They can be heard for miles around, attracting unwanted attention, and bullets are becoming a rare commodity. Arrows are silent and relatively easy to make, many times even reusable.” It wasn’t easy though, getting these people to listen to us.

  We were strangers to them, I was only fifteen and my brother five. My dad was alone, arguing his case to the council. After a lot of patience and persistence, they allowed him to go out hunting. He proved his case in spades, of course. We had lived out in the wilderness for several years, before arriving here. He had a young daughter and baby son to look after. It made him an efficient hunter, a survivor. After a few months, he gathered some followers and put together the town’s first (and only) all bow hunting squad. I was the first to enlist. My dad had been training me since I was twelve years old. After my stepmother died, he decided it was best if I learned to survive on my own... in case anything happened to him. He was an intelligent man. Thanks to him, now I can provide for my brother. He's asleep now, as I'm sitting here writing.

  His name is Xander Brightman. We both carry our father’s name. He’s only seven years old, means the world to me. He actually looks a lot like my father. His hair is curly like my dad’s used to be, though my dad’s hair was black. Xandy has dark brown hair and eyes, like my stepmother. He’s the sweetest little kid you could possibly imagine, always smiling. Obviously, I’m totally biased, but I swear, it’s like nothing in the world can get him down. He hardly ever makes any noise or fusses over things. In fact, he hardly speaks at all. He doesn’t really get along with the other kids at the community school. It’s not that he gets into fights or anything, he just doesn’t interact much with anyone. I'm no shrink, but I'm pretty sure it's some kind of trauma. Then again, who isn't traumatized these days?

  When my father disappeared, hunting with bow and arrows was put into question and my dad’s squad was disbanded. I was still only fifteen years old, but I figured I’d pick up where my father left off. The council wouldn’t have it though. They told me hunting was for men, that it was too dangerous outside and that I should find some other occupation. Bullshit! I mean, sure it’s dangerous out there, but they don’t have to tell me that, I LIVED out there. I know how to handle myself and I know how to hunt, probably better than anyone in town. Regardless, I was grounded. We had to start all over again... all while half mourning, half expecting my father’s return. I worked in the kitchen for a while, I knew how to skin a rabbit and pluck a chicken.

  Thankfully, all that’s in the past now... well, kinda. About six months ago, some of the guys in my dad’s old squad and I managed to reassemble the team. The council finally saw the light, officially recognized us and all. They made me captain, told me if anything went wrong, it was on me... as if that would scare me off. We’re a small group, just a handful of good guys really, but it’s great. We go out on mountain bikes. One thing my dad got wrong was “cars”. Sure, they can travel fast and go farther, but they make too much noise, scare off the game and become easy targets. Also, you need fuel to run a car. Bikes are quieter, easier to maintain and run on human energy.

  I don’t think the council would have given us a car anyway. I know how to drive, but the more autonomous we are, the better. It’s already a miracle they let us carry pistols, one apiece. We don’t use them for hunting, only for protection, but thankfully, we haven’t had to use them at all so far. That’s the great thing about being quiet, you go by unnoticed. It’s something the other hunters don’t really appreciate... But they’ll never appreciate anything about me and my gang. To them, we’re competition. We’re the only squad using bows and we’ve enjoyed a pretty successful streak of hunting trips lately. Nothing will get you respect like putting food on the table.

  Unfortunately, it also kinda makes the other hunters look bad. They sometimes return with big game as well. The difference is, my guys hardly ever run into trouble out there. The others, with their guns and trucks, sometimes return with damaged vehicles and wounded men. As for me, I’m just glad I’ve earned my place here. For a while there, I was worried they’d take our apartment away from us and put us in the common dormitories.

  The day we arrived in town, they gave us this nice little apartment, on the second floor of a broken down building. It's just a room with a bathroom, but I love it. We have a nice view of the town, and there’s no one around to bother us. All the other rooms are unusable, with holes in the walls and stuff. There’s no kitchen, of course. All the food is in the cafeteria, under lock and key. We all get three meals a day and that’s it. Feels like a prison sometimes. But having a bathroom just for us was more than I ever hoped for. It was because my dad fell into the "parent with child" category. Now I’m the one who fits that description.

  I feel so lonely sometimes... all the time, actually. It’s so empty here now, without my dad. He used to sleep there, on a mattress on the floor, left the single bed for my brother and I. The truth is, I’ve always taken him for granted. He always knew what to do, he took charge... and I just... I never even considered life without him. Now, I have to make all the decisions. Thankfully, I’m not completely alone in this hell. Bibi and Stone have really been there for me... for us.

  Bibi, a.k.a. Berenice Black (she hates that name, dunno why). She's about twenty-seven now. She’s crazy, but without her I wouldn't have made it this far. Took me a full year just to learn her actual name. She's about as crazy as she looks too. Black hair, shaved at the sides, but long and messy over the top. She's always ruffling it up, making sure it stays that way. She has crazy black eyes and her skin is really pale. There are these dark circles around her eyes that make her look kinda sickly. You'd never guess how strong she actually is by looking at her. She's always wearing black, a kind of punk rock style. There’s this black leather neck collar that I've never seen off her neck, like, ever. She must sleep with that thing on, bathe with it even. Some kind of lucky charm.

  Stone, on the other hand, looks more like one of those stoic country boys, with the rough southern accent. Daniel Stone. Bibi calls him "the
old guy", but he’s not really that old, she just likes to bust his balls. He does look old though, closer to fifty, when he’s actually only thirty-seven. He’s a few years younger than my dad. They used to get along well, the two of them. It was kinda funny, cuz my dad used to look way younger than his age. Stone looked like he could be my dad’s older brother. It's because of his grey hair and permanent stubble. He’s a great guy, been like an uncle to Xandy and I... or at least he tries. He doesn’t have the greatest people skills. Stone's the kind of guy that’s there when it counts, you know? The rest of the time, he’s just kinda watching over things from a distance. Half the time, he has this crooked, sarcastic smirk on his face. He's actually kinda handsome (for an old guy), with blue eyes, thick eyebrows... prominent chin. He’s more the mysterious quiet type, the polar opposite of Bibi.

  She likes to talk a lot, and laugh loudly... and drink, and smoke, and gamble... always telling the weirdest stories. Says she’s been all over the country and even abroad, back when we still had airplanes. No doubt she’s been living on the road since long before the world went off the rails. When it comes down to it though, she doesn’t like talking about herself too much, even with me. We ran into her back in Houston, as we were making our way east, out of Texas. Come to think of it, it was typical meeting her that way. She was running from a small horde of demented, shooting them down with a big old shotgun. Bad idea. The demented might be blind as bats, but they’re attract to noise. All that fuss would only lure in more of them. My dad didn’t even want to get mixed up in that shitfest, but she literally ran straight into us...

  You know what? It’s actually a story worth telling, but, since I’m “writing it down” this time, I think I’ll try to write it like an actual book...