July 8th, 2033
I kept hiking north today, stopping only once to rest up and swallow a quick bite of salami and cheese. I’ve been up for the better part of thirty hours and I have to say, physically, I feel fine, but, as far as how I’m holding up mentally, well, that’s a whole ‘nother ball of wax. On the one hand, I have to admit, it’s nice to have my sanity validated, but on the other, if I had been crazy, none of this would be happening.
I’d give anything to have the world as it was forty-eight hours ago. Anything at all. But, that’s not going to happen.
What is going to happen – I’m going to keep my head low and my footprint light. I’m going to stay off the beaten path and keep my wits about me and, above all, I’m going to figure out how to stay alive. I’m going to survive.
A quick check of my wind-up watch tells me it’s nearing six a.m., it’s been twenty-seven hours since the first strike and three hours since the last wave of warbirds disappeared from the southern skies. I’d like to think the attack is over, but I know better. It’s only just begun.
The fires to the south rage on, creeping ever northward. Smoke and soot hang in the air, causing my eyes to water and burn. And, with the wind whipping through the steep canyons, flames could suddenly appear on the horizon one minute, and overrun me the next. I have to keep moving. I’m not safe here.
One last sip of water and I am off.