Mark Finn (finnswake) wrote,
Mark Finn
finnswake

Maybe my last entry

I can hear them downstairs, moving around in the theater. The sound actually carries up through the bricks and the concrete. Of course, most of the building is hollow, because of the return air vents, so their shuffling and scritching are multiplied tenfold.

The metal door is holding, and I don't think they will ever think to walk into the room where the crawlspace is. As long as we're careful and keep the doors locked, we should be able to hold out for a while. It's night now, and the police station is deserted across the street. Nothing is moving on the square. Some view.

Cathy is already worried about food and water. I don't quite know what to tell her. We're going to have to get clever, and pretty quick, too. Maybe scramble up to the roof. I don't know. We're sleeping in the living room tonight, our backs to the window overlooking the square, our eyes staring at the two doors that keep us from becoming food. Or worse.

There's so much I wanted to say. So much I wanted to do. Don't know if that'll ever happen, now. We are done for. Even if we survive, we are going to have to start from scratch. And I'll have better things to do than this.
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