Sores

Whatever is coming up through the lift shaft is getting closer. I stood by the doors for a few minutes, listening. I was spooked, and ran around the corridors looking for a way out. There isn't one. Nothing works; not the lift, not the doors. There aren't any stairs. I'm going to die here.

I went back to the lab. I thought I might be able to convince the others to help me. They all look as bad as I feel. A few of them have open sores. One man has a growth on his nose. None of them were interested in escaping. I don't think they believe they'll be rescued. I think they've given up. At least they got the map working.

It worked intermittently, flashing up data that made me want to cry. The Red Zone is almost touching the facility. The outer edge of the Yellow brushes against Moscow. The Green is covering New York and London. I hope we're caught in a bubble, that the map isn't showing the truth. But I don't believe it. I think the world as I knew it is gone, and the only mercy is that I won't live to see it. Maybe humanity will survive. Maybe not.

My hair has fallen out. The sores on my scalp are weeping.