Day Two Hundred and Forty-Eight

It’s been two hundred and forty-eight-days since Little FiFnger’s last attack. The streets are eerily quiet and most children are now home schooled. While we wait in our terror, a new threat has emerged, the Coronavirus.

For more information on the virus, follow this link.

We have heard stories from other towns closer to the city about whispers of the infection spreading, killing some who have contracted the virus. Reachville CDC warns those towns already in hiding, that the virus has a possible surface life of thirty-days, and an incubation period of between two, and twenty-four-days.

What this means is that an escalator hand rail could hold live cells of the virus, and maintain its ability to infect people. Some people show signs of the virus early on, but it will not harm those Reachvillian’s trying to get back to normal, to remain indoors for another month.

With Little Finger’s silence, and the Coronavirus outside our doors, the fear in Reachville remains on high alert.

As always though, Reachvillian’s are pulling together to help each other through these trying times. Many residents have opened up their vegetable patches to the community. The barter system has the sharing of eggs from backyard chooks, to fresh from the cow milk from Farmer Joe’s.

“Yeah, if you are trading with the milk, please let others know they must boil it before use, and the cream on the top, after you remove the bugs, goes lovely with a hot cup of tea” Joe Pesky said.

Trading goes on over backyard fences so no-one needs leave their homes. The most giving of neighbours is Mr, Durango. With the store closed, his gardens are overflowing.

“I like to give back to the community when I can”, Mr Durango said watching Mrs Durango pick and package vegetables for barter. No-one takes more than they need, and panic buying left this place the day Little Finger murdered ten victims in one night.

On a lighter note, Seamus Macbeth and myself have spent more time behind closed doors to keep you abreast of the events outside our little hamlet. Our stories have become more intimate, and the photography, more confidant.

This is Craven Looney and Seamus Macbeth writing to you from the epicentre of Little Finger’s hunting grounds, from a town still locked in its grief, its terror, in their own homes, with an old block of tasty cheese I am willing to trade for some potato. Just trim the mould and it will be as good as gold, bringing you the news as it happens almost on time every time.

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