Kane's Page

Behold the dog, face shoved into the rubbish, tail wagging, hind legs tense, begins to wiggle and twist, and withdraws with some scrap in his mouth, swallows in one gulp and stands there panting in the Indian heat. He is a mongrel, rangy, bones standing out from his middle, the color of wet sand, a resemblance of dingo. Like a dingo he also does not bark. He cannot bark. A scar down his face and beneath his throat thick enough that its visible beneath his fur.

A time before. A dark…

The infected got in today. We don’t know how. If any of us do know they’re not telling. Or they're among the dead.

It was early morning and I was napping on the couch when I was woken by gunfire. Two heavy blasts from a doublebarrel shotgun. I swung my legs over the edge of the couch sat up and shook my head and waited to see if there would be…