Sincerely, Jennifer x

Everybody started getting sick when they came. The town was filled with coughs and the last, wretched breaths of dying men and women. The children were spared. Nobody knew why, but as they watched their parents pass out from the pain and slowly succumb to the sickness, the children each felt a guilty sense of relief that they were not infected.

Nobody knew why. Nobody could fix the problem. The grown ups would begin to cough, and within a few days, they would crumble into the waiting arms of death. We all started wearing masks, using hand sanitiser, socially distancing, everything that we tried during Covid-19, but none of it worked. Nothing would stop the spread, but it only spread to the grown ups.

It began with Mr Cole. He began spluttering and shuddering. His whole body was cold and nothing would help. Blood began to pour from his trembling lips as he collapsed in the bakery, shaking as the shocked crowd covered their children’s eyes. An ambulance was called, but it was too late. Nothing could be done, and as the paramedics left with his body, I saw one of them stifle a cough.

I began to notice more and more of them coughing, and the children noticed too. Children aren’t nearly as stupid as adults think they are, you know. I’m not sure if I still count as a child. I’ve just turned sixteen, but I’m not sick, so I suppose I must be.

There’s not a single healthy adult left, and so, I’m in charge. We meet in the town hall every evening and I look back into the frightened eyes of every other child in the town, haunted by their parents dying right in front of them. I never know what to say.

I make sure that we have shared food out equally, that the younger kids have someone to watch over them, and that the bodies are disposed of.

We didn’t know what to do with them, at first. There was nobody left at the hospital after a few days. No doctors. No nurses. No coroners. Just an empty building. The morgue was filled before long, and so we had to find somewhere else. We had no idea how to hold funerals, and some of us were worried about getting infected too from handling the bodies.

Some of the bigger boys dug a pit just outside town, by the road. It isn’t dignified, but it’s the best we can do. We gather a few of them there, and cover them with dirt and twigs once the pit starts to get full. I read about that sort of thing when I was at school. Plague pits. I’m not even sure we’re doing it right, but I couldn’t remember much from history class.

My Mum is in there now, and my Dad won’t be far behind. I miss them. Dad isn’t dead yet, but there’s nothing there anymore, not really. His heart beats, and he breaths, shallow and slow, but the coughs seem to be far and few between now. That’s how you know someone is at the end.

The adults from outside are afraid to come now. At first, they did, determined to rescue us from the sickness, but now, they stay away. They send emails. They drop food parcels and medicine from planes, and occasionally, some government official will call, but they haven’t stepped foot in South Kirby for about a month.

I suppose I don’t blame them. It’s pretty obvious that they’ll get sick if they do. Someone has to run things outside, I guess. We can’t expect them all to sacrifice their lives to check on us… except, I’m only sixteen, and I have no clue what I’m supposed to be doing. I went from studying for my exams to being the mayor of a dying town full of screaming, sobbing kids, and now, things have gotten even worse, because… they want to make a deal with me.

Not the government, I mean… Them. The creatures.

Ray from next door saw them when all this started, but we all ignored him. He’s got a big imagination. He says all sorts of things. It couldn’t possibly have been true… except, it was.

There they were, under the beds, around dark corners, in the shadows. Leaping from the darkness as night fell and crawling around the town. None of us believed him, but he insisted. He said he saw one outside of the bakery, watching as Mr Cole fell. Huge, milky eyes visible from under its cloak, staring intently at the dying man before slinking away. We all thought he was mad, or a victim to his big imagination, but we’ve all seen them now. Some of us have only seen a glimpse, but a few of us have seen them up close.

I saw them properly for the first time about two weeks ago. My parents were both sick, lying in bed, coughing and crying. The house sounded like Hell. I mopped their brows, made them soup, fixed them drinks with lots of ice. Nothing helped. I knew it wouldn’t help, but I didn’t want them to be frightened, so I kept playing the game, and pretending that they’d get better, when deep down, we all knew that they wouldn’t.

I was bringing Mum and Dad some water when I saw them. They were gathered around the bed. Their large, dark eyes shone as they turned towards me, extending the empty arms of their cloaks and motioning for me to continue over towards my parents.

As I walked closer, the air was hot and thick, sticking in my throat with every step. The bedside lamp flickered and then fell into darkness, and all that remained before my eyes were their own large, looming eyes all around me. I knelt beside my Mother, gently placing a straw between her lips as they watched silently.

They stayed for a few days, watching Mum fade away, and when she finally succumbed to the sickness, they crowded around her body, their eyes glowing in the dark night.

There aren’t many adults left alive, and things are starting to break down. The food that the government sends isn’t enough. They’ve been sending less and less every time, and some of the kids are getting paranoid. They think the government is leaving us to die. Some of the kids are getting angry about the division of labour. We’ve all been thrust into caring for the last few adults, caring for the little kids who can’t look after themselves, disposing of bodies and farming. It’s not been easy. Just a little while ago, we were counting down the days until summer break. I was revising for my exams, and now, I am surrounded by death.

Even without the petty squabbles and paranoia, each child in this town has lost someone. Each of us was spared by the sickness, but there isn’t one of us that has been spared by the Grim Reaper. We’re not in a good way, and there is no way out, only a way forward.

I am recording this message to tell you that it does not get better. I want to be hopeful, but I can’t. I lie to the kids every day when I tell them things will get better, but I know that it won’t. I am recording this message to tell you that I lied.

They are taking me to the next town. None of us can drive obviously, but they have a carriage. Some of the creatures pull it from the front, and two of them are in here with me, guarding it. I’m recording this, and they are watching me, with their big, empty eyes, but they aren’t stopping me from talking. I suppose they think it’s better just to let me say my piece, because by the time you hear it, it will be too late.

They were going to infect the children. I thought we were immune, but we aren’t. We were just spared, for the moment, so that the sickness could travel even further. I have been infected, and this virus has to go somewhere, so it’s going to you, the people of North Kirby. I am sorry, but I couldn’t let them hurt the children. They depend on me. I’m all that they have left. There’s a few dying adults back home, but they’ll be in the pits before long, and someday soon, so will I, but they’ve promised that if I take your adults with me, our children will be safe. Your children will be safe too, as long as your eldest can be brave.

I don’t want to be brave. I really, desperately don’t want to be brave, but I don’t have a choice, and if you ever hear this, neither will you.

You must protect the children. They are all that you will have left. Someone must survive.