The Evolved Survive, Everything Else Dies.

Dear Diary, today I felt Ice crawl beneath my skin. Sharp pinpricks, melting, burning, a boiling of blue lava that spread uncontrollably.

I muffled my screams into my duffle bag, silently crying out from the pain of it. And then it stopped. A wave of fatigue slowly fell over me, and I felt like I couldn't stand.

It's getting worse.

I rolled my tank top up to inspect my midsection. There is a thick, black and blue patch that stretches out 6 inches in every direction, starting at my naval. It feels cold to the touch like there are ice crystals spliced into my skin. It doesn't hurt once it stops, but it's excruciating while it's spreading. Which it has, every day since the poison rain fell.

Every day since humanity ceased to exist.

The end of the world made us into something different. Humanity... the word human doesn't apply anymore. Unless you're talking about the people who are now gone.

California looks a lot different these days. Nothing grows anymore, no one parties, and if it's possible, the heat is getting worse.

Sometimes I miss being able to sit on the beach and read, surf in the afternoons, or ride the I-5 coastline on my motorcycle. My family had been gone long before the world ended, but somehow, I still feel more alone than ever. My "home" is the remains of what was once an In-N-Out Burger. When I chose this location, it was mostly because it was sort of clean, had booths to sleep on, and obviously stocked with food. The doors were easy to lock up, as well as the one drive-through window.

I locked up both sets of double doors tonight, as usual, and habitually re-checked each of them before I headed toward the bathroom to clean up. I took off my ventilator mask. The rims of the mask are so tight to my face that you could still see the indentations 20 minutes later. I looked at my face in the dingy restaurant mirror.

I used to be Japanese. My hair is black, and my eyes are a brown/grey color. I'm 24 years old, 5'2", and sitting at 110lbs. That's what my driver's license says, anyways. I still keep my license on me, maybe as a reminder to myself of who I am. That I'm not a monster.

Not yet anyway.

But really, no one is anything anymore. No race, gender, whatever. Nothing defines anything anymore because we cannot even be considered human. The humans died, only the "evolved" have survived. The poison rain weeded out anyone and anything that couldn't survive inhabitation. That's my guess anyhow. We are highly evolved mutations at best, monsters at worst. I've seen people transform right in front of my face into something indescribably horrible, something that would scare off even Frankenstein's monster.

That's my worst fear, in all this. Transforming into something I'm not, and not having any control over it. Not having control over myself. But not everyone turns into beasts. Some of the people I've seen obviously had a superhero complex in our previous life. They have done their best to don sparkly suits, and "save" those they could. I honestly have no idea where they got the materials from, or how they put those suits together in the first place.

But I don't fit into that category of mutant and don't really need to understand the thought process behind it.

So here I am, in my burger joint eating what remains of the unspoiled fast food, hoping that I turn into a super-human and not a beast. It's all I can hope for at the moment.

But my current situation isn't all bad, I guess.

I have food, till it runs out. But it's good food even for the apocalypse.

There are exactly 3 booths that aren't entirely gross, and I've made them work for sleeping and eating purposes. Also, this place gets a lot of good sunlight which has been good for my mental health so far. And since it's basically a big sealed glass box, I don't have to worry too much about the air pollution outside. I also have not yet had anyone try to rob me.

My possessions at this point are all stowed away in my small black duffle bag. It was my old gym bag from back when I was in gymnastics way back when. I have a change of clothes, my outside gear, which equates to an old trench coat, boots and vent mask, my wallet with my driver's license, and the heart-shaped locket that my mother gave me when I was 4 years old.

Oh, and of course, this journal and pen.

Man, if I ever stop writing, it's either because this blue ice spread and killed me, or the ink ran out of this pen. We'll never really know.

Yours for now,

-Kana

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-Leah H.