Researcher's Will

June 3, 1998

My dearest Alma,

Let me first apologize for not being able to call you. A man wearing sunglasses didn't permit any phone calls. Sorry Alma.

I sit here trying to think of where to begin, of how to explain in a few simple words all that's happened in my life since we last spoke, and already I fail. I hope this letter finds you well, and that you'll forgive the tangents of my pen; this isn't easy for me.

Even as I write, I can feel the simplest of concepts slipping away, lost to feelings of despair and confusion -- but I have to tell you what's in my heart before I can rest. Alma, please believe that what I'm telling you is the truth. The entire story would take hours for me to tell you, and time is short, so accept these things as fact: last month there was an accident in the lab and the virus we were studying leaked.

All my colleagues who were infected are dead or dying, and the nature of the disease is such that those still living have lost their senses. This virus robs its victims of their humanity, forcing them in their sickness to seek out and destroy life. Even as I write these words, I can hear them, pressing against my door like mindless, hungry animals.

Alma, I have tried to survive only to see you again. But my efforts only delayed the inevitable; I am infected, and there is no cure for what will follow -- except to end my life before I lose the only thing that separates me from them.

My love for you.

In an hour I'll have entered my eternal sleep where there is peace. Please understand. Please know that I'm sorry.

Martin Crackhorn