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October 1st, 2010: DARK NEW DAYS

October 2nd, 2010: DEMONS AT THE DOOR

October 4th, 2010: DARK PURPOSE

October 6th, 2010: THE WALL

October 7th, 2010: THE HOME FRONT


October 8th, 2010: FAITH

October 12th, 2010: RECOVERY

October 14th, 2010: WHY ME?

October 15th, 2010: THE DAY THE WORLD SHIT THE BED




October 21st, 2010: NO REASON WHY

October 25th, 2010: COME GET SOME

October 26th, 2010: OPERATION BIRTHDAY

October 28th, 2010: PARTY ON, DUDES

October 30th, 2010: DRAMA

November 1st, 2010: ALPHA AND OMEGA


November 3rd, 2010: REUNITED


November 5th, 2010: CHANGES

November 6th, 2010: SQUIRREL TURDS


November 11th, 2010: IT’S OH SO QUIET

November 13th, 2010: WE’RE HUNTING WABBITS

November 17th, 2010: NO LUCK

November 20th, 2010: CONTACT

November 23rd, 2010: ASCENSION

November 25th, 2010: PROGRESS

November 28th, 2010: NOMADS

November 30th, 2010: WHITE CLOUDS

December 1st, 2010: EVERYTHING IS WHAT?


About the Author

About Chris Philbrook

Also by Carl Meadows




OCTOBER 1st, 2010


Hey Freya.

It’s been nearly two weeks since you left and more than a week since I last wrote. The weather has shifted to suit my mood, I think. Autumn has arrived with a vengeance and the last couple of days we’ve all largely been housebound thanks to a blast of rainstorms that has made going beyond the gate too miserable to warrant the effort. The last thing any of us needs is to get sick with a chill of some kind. The severity of any sickness will be amplified by our end-of-the-world vibe.

I have to keep reminding myself that I’m not the only one affected by your loss. You were popular here. Everybody loved you. Particles misses you more than anyone, I think. I’ve since learned that pugs have not only mastered the expressions of outrage, indignation, and contempt with ease; they also do a hell of a line in heartbreak. The little dude’s big eyes seem to be constantly holding back tears and I’ve seen him sitting by the glass doors, staring out into the rainswept yard in the direction of your grave, a forlorn whimper breaking everybody’s heart over and over again.

Everybody here has lost someone or something, whether it was before the world shat itself, or since, so grief isn’t new. Your death, however, has hit the lodge hard. You’re the first of our new apocalypse family we’ve lost. Well, you and Laura; I shouldn’t forget about her. She was always so detached though, and never really tried to fit in, lost as she was in her sea of pain while demons from the depths of her psyche raged at her in the quiet.

I still can’t let myself hate her. I want to, as wrong as that is. I need someone to blame for your death. I need a focus, a place to put this tight ball of rage that – on some days - just crushes the air from my lungs. Her suicide took you from us. From me.

I want to say how selfish she was to do that, to put everyone else in such peril by her actions, knowing that someone else could get hurt, but how can I possibly know what storms raged inside that head of hers? Shit, she was only twenty-two years old and used as an unwilling sex slave for three months, repeatedly raped by laughing men who would high-five each other after using her and the other captives to satisfy their lust, only to be thrown back in her prison, waiting for a repeat.

What a fucking awful existence.

I don’t know how I would handle that, so I’m not going to pretend to know what darkness lurked in her thoughts. Anyone on the precipice of suicide, teetering on that edge with only the slightest of nudges required to fall, doesn’t have thoughts of what comes after. That must be the darkest and loneliest of places to exist if oblivion is the only path you can envisage, and I guess she just wanted the noise to stop, with no thought for what lay beyond.

So, yeah. The two of you were the first casualties of our new apocalypse settlement, hence why I think this has hit everyone like a freight train. The thing that really scares me is that you’re unlikely to be the last, given the current state of the world. That terrifies me more than I can articulate.

We’ve done little other than grieve. After your funeral, I virtually locked myself away for the first three days. Selfish as all hell, I know, considering the hefty weight I hung around Nate’s neck in pulling the trigger for me, but I couldn’t function. I think I said in my last entry that I’ve never really lost anyone close to me before. Whenever someone I knew died, it was the obligatory shock and, “Ah man, that’s shit,” comment, but I never really felt anyone’s death before. I’ve never really been close enough to anyone except Dean and Maria to… well, to basically care enough, as shitty as that sounds. I knew a big circle of people pre-end of days, but those inside the circle of trust were few. Mostly, everyone else was in my triangle of suspicion or my square of disappointment.

I think I’ve done three of the grief stages these past two weeks. Denial and anger were certainly my go-to states early on. I couldn’t fathom I wouldn’t see or speak to you again, or huff with open envy at your radiant skin and flawless features, only to hear that musical laugh you had - which was like the tinkling of a bell - at my fake outrage. Anyone who came near me got the short and snappy version of Lockey, my only desire to be left alone with my little guy Particles so we could grieve. I’ve done a lot of apologising these past couple of days before I sat down to write again.

I don’t do depression well. I’ve

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