June 22nd 1869

For lack of a better expression: all hell has broken loose. Where do I even start... my mind and body ache from the exertion of simply writing this. 3 dead. 6 injured. These numbers will likely raise before the sun rises next. The town is in complete pandemonium. Town hall is burnt to the ground. I will try to document the events of the last few days, if I can possibly put it all into words. I have never seen such incredible, palpable chaos in my entire life.

First, the sun came. I rejoiced in the end of the rains, but I would have preferred they continued than this. The ground dried up unexpectedly quickly, which was nice. And then it dried up some more. The birds started singing again, but I can hear them now, coughing and screeching from the heat. The ground is cracked and dusty, the sun is relentless, the rivers are empty. We are in a terrible drought, the likes of which I have never seen. The entire world seems to be parched beyond repair, the very leaves on the trees hanging limp and thirsty. Stray animals have come into town in search of water and food. They’ve become unusually aggressive and strong from their despair to find something to eat. So there have been attacks. One man hanging onto life by a thread is in the infirmary, nearly torn apart by a swarm of coyotes. A few more with bites from foxes, and one with a broken arm from a bear attack. Luckily, someone was nearby to shoot it before it devoured the poor man whole. And what's more, these were not normal animals. Anyone could see that they were strange, sickly. I hope in my deepest soul that they weren't rabid. Though they are just working men, I wouldn't wish that fate on any

poor soul in this world. The air around the infirmary is heavy and sweet with sickness. The remaining men with the rash are deteriorating greatly, and they are not expected to survive. One more died last night. It seems that the dry, hot air worsened their condition quite terribly. Slowly, each of their skin tightened, and cracked, and festered to nearly nothing. They lay in beds, nothing more than heaving masses of exposed tissue and flesh rotted away. The screams. I don't even want to write about them. In what little words they have left, they use to beg for death, and in my opinion it is cruel not to deliver it. There is no chance for them, poor, poor souls as they are.

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The grave of the first man who succumbed to the rash has been disturbed. The stone demolished, and the grave dug out. I don’t know what sick, evil bastard would do such a thing. He was buried with nothing. He had nothing. He lived with nothing. And still, in death, he doesn't even have a grave. Normally, I would want to prosecute a gravedigger for such a crime, but even that is close to the last thing on my mind. With everything else happening, it seems insignificant.

The mines, the mines. The water was too much for them, and now the soil above tightened and cracked with the drought. We have lost many, many passages. In the town you can feel the ground tremble and quake every time another goes down. A few men have been buried forever. God help their souls. Their families sob in the streets, on the porches of their homes. No solace will come for them. I can't think, I can't speak. I'm hidden in my cabin, and I fear for my life. We cannot dig new mine passages. The underground has been reduced to a heaving mass of clay and wet, wet earth. Crushing rocks. Death, death, death. Nothing but death stalks this forsaken town, these forsaken people. All is lost. There are riots. Town hall burns even now, I can still see residual flames licking through my window. I see nothing but despair in the greasy, slicked glass. Men are running about, guns drawn, torches ablaze. Women and children are locked inside or otherwise have fled. I can hear them chanting, chanting for my head and my Father’s. Gunshots ring out, and it doesn't matter anymore if the world were to run wet with rain or with my own blood. There is nothing left, nothing left. Each second passes with more screams, more fire. The police have fled, they cannot contain an army of anger. They fear not for their jobs now, but for their lives.

In this moment I have never known less. All my years of education, all my wealth gives me nothing. I can only hope that the fires will go out. I can hardly blame the men for rioting. They don’t know any better, they don’t know who to fight against. They don't understand that I've done them no wrong. They can't see what this company has given them: a home, safety, wages. Of course, exactly the kind of men who would come to a place like this are the ones who would call for blood without knowing whose to spill. No civility could ever be expected. I won't forget this anytime soon. I know that even in the ashes of greatness, each will get what he deserves. The time of judgement waits for no man.