Sty didn’t bother to go into the room, not yet at least. He was the new head master after all; he could decide what to do and when to do it so long as it got done. At least, that’s what he hoped the deal would be. Hib and Tiq hadn’t said anything to him yet and he was sure he had been sitting on the cold tile floor for at least an hour now. Besides, what could two elderly twins do to a man who survived ten years in the waste? It was absurd to fear them, yet some how he did. Perhaps it was living with them for fifteen years that cemented fear of them into his mind, but no, they were never particularly scornful, even when rules were broken. No, it was more likely the fear was born from That Night so many years ago, when he witnessed the death of Hib, then his sudden reappearance at breakfast the morning after. Whatever it was Sty felt that making enemies of them was not an intelligent thing to do.

Sty finally stood up and looked at the door as if for the first time, even when it was open the light did not enter. There was a perfectly straight line between light and the shadow of the room.  This puzzled Sty, which also puzzled him. After being in the waste he thought he was done with being puzzled. A voice lofted down from the stair case drawing closer as the source descended, “I trust you have had sufficient time to read the journal and are now ready to assume your duties as—Oh, hello? You haven’t even entered yet?” Tiq looked furious for moment and Sty thought that for a moment he might have to run, he was good at running. Sty shook his head slowly, head bent down like a scolded child. What was it about being around authority figures, past or present, which always sent you back into childhood?

Tiq sighed, “Well, hurry up,” he paused for a moment, and when Sty made no movement, “Go on!” The sharpness of Tiq’s voice compelled Sty to turn on his heels and take the first step into the room.

Once he fully crossed the threshold he turned back and was shaken once again by the sheer oddity of the orphanage. He saw now was the light was not able to enter. The other room and the one he was presently in were cut off by what looked like solid water. It had not been visible from the other side, but from this side the previous room looked as if he were staring out it from under water. He touched the surface and ripples appeared but Tiq on the other side seem to take no notice, or simply didn’t care, and went back upstairs.

Sty turned his back to the barrier stared into the room that stretched out before him. It was huge, yet he could not move more then a foot to either side because from wall to wall, aside from a thin pathway to an old chair in the center of the room and the little table next to it, were machines, wires, and tubes all connecting to the chair. Sty walked the narrow path to the chair, the silent hum of the machines manifesting in his ears. On the table next to the chair sat a very old, very worn book. There was once a title, or at least something written upon the cover, but the years had worn it down to faded scratches. Sty reached down and carefully picked the book up and opened it to its first page.

Property of Victor Mossil

04/26/58

Hello, journal! My name is Victor Mossil. Today is my tenth birthday. My mother bought you for me. I hope I write in you a lot.

The next few pages nothing was exactly written. Just crude drawings of at first seemed to be deceased animals and chemicals in vials, as the pages progressed so did the detail in the drawings, one picture was surprisingly haunting, even to a survivor of the waste.

It depicted a young woman, lying on the floor with blood dripping from her mouth, her eyes were white, and there was a huge gash on the side of her stomach, but the most disturbing part was her right arm, shoulder, and part of her back. They were all hideously deformed and disproportional to the rest of the body, at least three times as large as their counterparts to the left. Sty turned the page and was surprised to actually find writing.

11/13/63

The date caused Sty to stop for a moment. 1963 was the year the first reported cases of The Blight were recorded. Sty turned the page back to the woman, could she have been one of its victims?

Dear, Journal. It’s been awhile since I last wrote to you. My father said I was too old to write in ‘girly-diaries.’ I believed him for awhile; still do. But, in light of recent events I am hoping that writing in you will provide some comfort.

You see, Journal, my mother is dead. One afternoon she went out to pick up some groceries. It was a nice day, which makes what happened next so strange. It began to snow. I wanted to go outside and play, but my father restrained me with tears in his eyes. At the time I had no idea why that was. But I soon discovered why. It was no ordinary snow, it issued out from dark-gray clouds like smog. Father told me to go in my room, and when I asked why he yelled at me. He had never yelled at me before, so I went to my room. Soon I heard loud banging at the door. Then I heard my father walking away from, then walking back to the door. I heard the cocking of a shotgun, and then I heard the crashing and splintering of wood. Screams. A gun shot. Another scream. Another gun shot.

I think I must have sat in my room for a few hours. When I finally left, I went to the front door; it had been torn off its hinges. There was blood everywhere and in the center of the room were two bodies, one of my fathers, the shot gun still securely held by his fingers, his face blown in by the force of its fire. The other was my mothers, or what used to be my mother. She was now horribly deformed. On the previous page was what she looked like. My father had shot her, then himself. I’m alone now. The snow is still falling. I hear things outside. But I’m in the basement. They can’t find me hear. I hope.

Sty turned the page, it was dated ten years later, and this would make Victor the same age as Sty.

04/26/73

My birthday. But I have to work. I need to work. They shipped in three specimens from the last outbreak of Everto Plasmator Virus. We call it that it means Demon Maker in Latin. We tested their intelligence. They had lost NONE! And we were very surprised that they could speak. Though, they didn’t particularly have anything nice to say. So then why do they attack us?

02/23/75

The snow still hasn’t stopped. I took refuge in what I thought was an abandoned orphanage. It wasn’t so abandoned. Three Blighters present, forty-five children accounted for, fifteen dead. I dispatched the Blighters, I didn’t use fire, even though it’s the easiest way to kill them, it could very well lead to my death as well. No, I used an invention of my own design. It’s rod that shocks on contact, enough volts to paralyze the Blighters (meaning enough to kill three normal men). It then injects liquid sarin, one of the most effective nerve-agents ever made, which, by the time paralysis from the electricity wears off, the paralysis from the sarin sets in, as well as convulsions, and respiratory failure. I had obtained the sarin from the lab I worked at before everything went to hell. My supplies are getting low. I might have enough to kill one or two more Blighters. For now, I will see to the needs of the children.

02/24/75

I have discovered that the Blighters in the orphanage were the caretakers and the Head Master. I can’t just leave these children here. I can’t take them with me. I’ll have to stay here and protect them. They call me Head Master now.