Beth, my wife, is clutching the broken forms of our grandchildren. She and they are dead a few feet above me. Beth threw herself over the children in an attempt to protect them from the falling debris of the house. Their mother, my daughter, is somewhere under the rubble of our mountain home. Their deaths were quick.
I’m trapped in a pocket under the rubble. I had gone down to the basement to gather my notes and files. At that point, I was still undecided. Should I print what I know? A whisper of me unveiling the truth had put my family in our mountain hideout. One option was to burn the last of the proof, and to live quietly in the pain of knowing that somehow the world’s end had its beginning in me. My name is Matthew MacDonald. I used to be a good bio-geneticist and a good husband. Now I’m neither.
The earthquake came without warning. It devastated every home on the mountain-side. For a while after it hit, I heard an occasional moan coming from nearby piles of wood and rock. Those who survived their houses collapsing faced the terror of dying from starvation underneath their once comfortable homes. I should be weeping for them and my family. Instead, I am writing. I can’t stop writing. As I scribble these notes, I can see out of the hole I’ve dug in the side of the rubble. It is my light and my air.
Nothing much is left. How did we in California ever think the colliding faults of the world would somehow miss us? The quakes started in Eastern Europe and then Japan was ripped open. Long dead volcanoes spit up their molten guts into the seas, spoiling and poisoning most of the water. At times, noon was like midnight when the sun was covered by the heavy volcanic ash drifting through the air. I knew it wasn’t long until California would crack as well. But we couldn’t leave. Our family had no decision in the matter. Prayers became our only protection. Possibly my family’s quick death was the final answer to our heavenward whispers; I don’t know. At this point, I know little except that what I have to say may bring some sanity back into a world that is spinning on an axis of madness.
I’m compelled to tell my story. But what I’m writing isn’t easy to believe. As you read this, open your mind to the fact that not everything is as it appears. Not everything comes from the source you think it’s coming from.
The people I’ll tell you about are not what you think. In fact they may be the opposite of everything they say. I’ve spent years watching and talking to them. I’ve gathered my notes from various news magazines, papers, biographies, journals and a misplaced diary. Before returning it I made a photocopy. Its proven very valuable. I also had two other sources from deep inside their circle. In one case, only a few people could know and tell me what they have. In the other case, the letters are simply signed “Faithful.”
I’m writing because I’ve got to stop them. Somehow I need to survive. I’ve been able to gather a few salvageable cans of food and bottles of liquid from the rubble of our basement. I pray I make it out alive. If I don’t then I ask that whoever finds my words can put an end to what, I’m sorry to say, I started. Whoever you are that is reading this—let the world know what is contained here. I caution you if you do: prepare to be hunted. For they’ll stop at nothing.