However you look at it, my mom destroyed the world as we know it—but, for all that, she’s still my mom. On one level, she did what she did for love, out of the hope that my life could be saved. I love her as much as ever—and marvel that she was able to hide her terror and anguish from me during the last years of her life, after she realized what kind of new world was coming.

My father was less than half-convinced that she killed herself, but in his notes, he admits the possibility. He felt that murder was more likely. Although the plague had spread too far—too fast—to be contained, Mom finally had wanted to go public with the story. Maybe she was silenced. Whether she killed herself or tried to stand up to the military and government doesn’t matter; she’s gone in either case.

Now that I understand my mother better, I know where I get the strength—or the obsessive will—to repress my own emotions when I find them too hard to deal with. I’m going to try to change that about myself. I don’t see why I shouldn’t be able to do it. After all, that’s what the world is now about: change. Relentless change.

Although some hate me for being my mother’s son, I’m permitted to live. Even my father wasn’t sure why I should be granted this dispensation, considering the savage nature of some of my enemies. He suspected, however, that my mother used fragments of my genetic material to engineer this apocalyptic retrovirus; perhaps, therefore, the key to undoing or at least limiting the scope of the calamity will eventually be found in my genes. My blood is drawn each month not, as I’ve been told, for reasons related to my XP but for study at Wyvern. Perhaps I am a walking laboratory: containing the potential for immunity to this plague—or containing a clue as to the ultimate destruction and terror it will cause. As long as I keep the secret of Moonlight Bay and live by the rules of the infected, I will most likely remain alive and free. On the other hand, if I attempt to tell the world, I will no doubt live out my days in a dark room in some subterranean chamber under the fields and hills of Fort Wyvern.

Indeed, Dad was afraid that they would take me anyway, sooner or later, to imprison me and thus ensure a continuing supply of blood samples. I’ll have to deal with that threat if and when it comes.

Sunday morning and early afternoon, as the storm passed over Moonlight Bay, we slept—and of the four of us, only Sasha didn’t wake from a nightmare.

After four hours in the sack, I went down to Sasha’s kitchen and sat with the blinds drawn. For a while, in the dim light, I studied the words Mystery Train on my cap, wondering how they related to my mother’s work. Although I couldn’t guess their significance, I felt that Moonlight Bay isn’t merely on a roller-coaster ride to Hell, as Stevenson had claimed. We’re on a journey to a mysterious destination that we can’t entirely envision: maybe something wondrous—or maybe something far worse than the tortures of Hell.

Later, using a pen and tablet, I wrote by candlelight. I intend to record all that happens in the days that remain to me.

I don’t expect ever to see this work published. Those who wish the truth of Wyvern to remain unrevealed will never permit me to spread the word. Anyway, Stevenson was right: It’s too late to save the world. In fact, that’s the same message Bobby’s been giving me throughout most of our long friendship.

Although I don’t write for publication anymore, it’s important to have a record of this catastrophe. The world as we know it should not pass away without the explanation of its passing preserved for the future. We are an arrogant species, full of terrible potential, but we also have a great capacity for love, friendship, generosity, kindness, faith, hope, and joy. How we perished by our own hand may be more important than how we came into existence in the first place—which is a mystery that we will now never solve.

I might diligently record all that happens in Moonlight Bay and, by extension, in the rest of the world as the contamination spreads—but record it to no avail, because there might one day be no one left to read my words or no one capable of reading them. I’ll take my chances. If I were a betting man, I’d bet that some species will arise from the chaos to replace us, to be masters of the earth as we were. Indeed, if I were a betting man, I’d put my money on the dogs.

Sunday night, the sky was as deep as the face of God, and the stars were as pure as tears. The four of us went to the beach. Fourteen-foot, fully macking, glassy monoliths pumped ceaselessly out of far Tahiti. It was epic. It was so live.