I kept my pace, but I was quite eager to investigate how a house could have central heating. As I arrived, I could see various colors flashing on the wall inside the house. When I got closer, I saw that they were coming from the glow of a television screen. Two people were sitting on the couch slack-jawed and unblinking. I figured they were both dead, but I will admit that I jumped when the eyes of the younger-looking of the two turned in my direction a few seconds before his head did.

He turned toward the older one and whispered and pointed at me. The older man looked at me and his face curled into a grin. His cheeks were so wrinkly that it looked like his eyes had sunken into his skull. Despite how portly he was, he quickly launched himself off of the couch, ran to the front door and opened it so fast it nearly tore itself off of its hinges.

I entered the house and immediately was met with a warmth I hadn’t felt since the heating was cut off at my apartment a year prior. I noticed a crockpot on the counter, cooking some meat I couldn’t identify at that moment. I could never forget that smell, made with the finest herbs and spices someone could scavenge.

I removed my gas mask, and the older one of the two told me to sit down on the couch, which was worn and heavily used. Immediately, I was met with the visage of an action film I had not seen since my college days. Since the Disease started, I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen a functioning television screen, much less proper visual entertainment. After all I had been through this past year, it was nice to lose myself in it.

I did ask how they got it up and running. “We’ve got three generators wired to each other and going all at once,” I remember him saying.

His accent was a weird mix of Southern and Midwestern, which I think was common for the area, but the younger of the two, who I presumed to be his son, hadn’t said a thing to me at all. He just sat there, occasionally laughing at the screen and drooling all over himself. I’ll admit privately that the movie on the television screen was so captivating that I must’ve lost track of time. The sun outside vanished and the crockpot in the kitchen started beeping relentlessly.

The father jumped out of his seat shouting, “Dinner’s ready!” His son cheered. I looked away from the television and found myself alone on their couch. Not wanting to seem like a poor house guest, I helped the son set the table, and everyone sat down to eat.

The roast was exquisite. The meat broke apart into stringy bits like pulled pork, yet it was tender and juicy like an orange. The fat went down easy, giving the meat an extra layer of chewy dimension that I hadn’t had since the first barbecue I’d gone to as a child. The vegetables had soaked up the broth the meat had created, rendering them soggy but just as satisfactory. They even had French fries, which was the cherry on top of such an excellent course.

I asked what the meat was. The neighbor, they said, laughing. I didn’t understand what they said at first and just kept eating. It didn’t really sink in until the father got up to “get dessert.” The son began to laugh with glee as the father opened the fridge and pulled out something gelatinous. He set it on the table. I could see a human brain within the opaque green of the jelly.

I mentally gagged at the sight of it, but I watched with fascination as the son happily cut a large piece for himself. It was uneven and shaky, but his father only laughed.

“My boy, he sure does love his brains,” he said as his son began to bite into the neuro-dessert. He didn’t use utensils. Sometimes he would grab it with enough force for most of it to slip out of his grip and back onto his plate before shoving it into his mouth, laughing all the while. All I could do was stare.

The father and I did the cleaning up as the son went back to the couch and put on a children’s cartoon. Despite the obvious love the father had for his son, as I was wiping down the dishware that he washed, he apologized to me for his son’s behavior. I’m guessing he noticed that I was soft spoken. Although I was, it didn’t mean I was shy. I told him not to worry about it and said it was probably some sort of mental deficiency.

The father got really defensive. He took a knife that was still dirty and scalding hot from the water and pointed it at me. I backed down.

Afterward, we went back to the couch to watch some television before heading off to bed. They gave me a room that smelled like a pig sty, but the bed was quite comfortable.

Looking back on that dinner as I’m writing this, I realize that I stumbled upon two men that had been cooking and consuming people possibly since the Disease started. Their hunger for human flesh might have been caused by grief. I noticed a few frames with photos of more family members, and the father, at dinner, mentioned a wife, but I can’t be sure.

I can’t blame myself for continuing to eat the dinner they prepared. But the fact I ate human flesh is forever burned into my mind. I enjoyed it, too, which makes the action worse. I’ll write again in the morning, it has been a tiring day.

---

I have been sitting in the dining room of a home in a now-desolate neighborhood for a while now, trying to figure out how to properly word my account of the events that have transpired over the past forty-eight hours. I think I’m at the point now where I can finally put into words what happened.

I turned to face the son and found him pointing his gun at me. He was giddy, his finger on the trigger. His arm flailed outward as he pulled it. If I believed in a god, I would’ve thanked him, but I didn’t have time to do such a thing. I leapt onto the son and wrestled the rifle out of his grip. It was surprisingly easy since he was continuing to flail his arms with uncontrollable abandon. He began to cry and beg for his life, but I made short work of him.

I held the gun close and began to walk back to the house, thinking about how many people the father and son had killed. I will admit that my anger might have gotten the best of me since I killed the son without properly thinking about it. But I think it was for the best. The last thing I wanted was for people to turn and rip each other to shreds but, alas, it’s out of my control. All I’ve been able to do is watch.

The house was eerily quiet when I arrived. The smell of death greeted me. I went into the backyard, opened the shed, grabbed an axe, and entered the house. The father, without breaking eye contact with the television, said, “Hey, Sport, did ya get ‘em?”

I did not answer. I slowly approached him. He asked again. I brought the axe over my shoulders. He turned, but before his mouth could open a centimeter, I slammed the axe into his face. He slumped over. I breathed a sigh of relief, then ran into the kitchen to grab some food.

Despite its origins, the meat is delicious. A breath of relief in these scarce times.

But I have to leave now, I must find my brother.