Yes, I know. I've been reading your posts for several months now, and sometimes you leave me very concerned.
Originally Posted by Mr. Bubbles~
Bioshocky, thanks for the backup (I tried to quote you, too, but I couldn't figure out how to do it )
Bubbles, the most powerful writing can come from pain. I'm not a writer myself, but I am an avid reader, and I recognize potential when I see it. Why not give it a try?
So, with SitS being what it is today, a friend and I were talking about how upset we were that SitS was potentially coming to an end and Mark had just left us. She said this is what he should have wrote us:
This is what sprang out of my mind from that fateful comment. Thanks Rolodex for the inspiration
Originally Posted by Rolodex
He starts the note, scrawling it in a messy hand as the agitation rises. His light hair is messy, clothes disheveled. He hasnít shaved in a good while, a scraggly beard covering his chin and cheeks. His blue eyes are bloodshot and watery from a lack of sleep. But there is something in them, something intense and hopeful. Something that makes him seem a little more alive than he has in some while.
This is what he writes:
You know who you are. Iíve seen you out there, waiting and watching as if you think something new will happen simply by looking away for the briefest of moments. Iím leaving. Iím going to get my daughter. Donít give me that look I know youíre giving me; that is my window youíre staring in and you know how much this has affected me. I am finally able to get her back and nothing will stop me. Iím sorry that I am leaving you, I really am, but if you were in my shoes wouldnít you want to get to where you are going as soon as you possibly can?
Now stop this. I know that I have no idea where I am going, or what is going to be down there but DAMN IT, donít you understand that I just have to go? Sheís cold, alone, and WAITING for me. My baby, my Cindy. Youíre obviously not a parent. You donít understand the lengths youíd go to make sure that your kid is safe. The messages in the lunchbox, the record, the Traveller making sandcastles... They all fit together and the main connector is my daughter. I want her back, and I have to go to Rapture to get her.
Youíre not real anyways, just figures I see out of the corner of my eye. Youíre the support I wish I had so I wasnít alone on this foolhardy quest. But I am alone. And that is why Iím going.
I will be back, and when I come back it will be with Cindy.
He lowers the pen. Leaning back in his chair and staring at the metal box on the desk next to him. He stands, drawing a cigarette lighter from the pocket of his rumpled slacks. The note burns swiftly, crumbling to ashes on the desk. When the flame sputters out, he blows the ashes away and places a new paper on the desk. With a flourish, a short new note is scrawled.
He picks up the box, takes his fedora from the coffee stand and leaves the apartment.
All that is left is a simple statement, both morose and mocking.
*sigh* I cannot write. But I will try and continue with this story and hopefully get better as I go. >.>
I press the blade against my skin. It sends a shiver through my body. I turn the cold silver blade on its side, the edge sinks into the palm of my hand. I wince. I pause for a moment, wondering if I should go through with this. I must. I slam my eyes shut, tears spilling down my cheeks. My grip tightens around the handle of the knife. I pull back, ripping the flesh away from my hand. Blood pours from the open wound down onto the hardwood floor, slipping away beneath the cracks. I drop the knife and fall to the floor sobbing. "Come back..."
I stand among the other children. I listen to the girls gossiping, the boys talking about who they banged the other night. Pathetic. I sigh, and walk over to my locker. I unlock it and open the door, revealing the textbooks full of useless knowledge. Mathematics, History, Science. There does not seem to be a book describing the emotional pain someone goes through when they lose everything they once had, and what it's like to have your dreams crack and shatter before your very eyes. I grab my coat, and slam the locker door shut. As I'm leaving the school I notice one of the "unpopulars" ogling over a young woman, about 14 years old I would say. He notices me glaring at him, and quickly averts his eyes from the woman, blushing. "Does he honestly think he has a chance?" I think to myself "I mean, really. He's 17 and he's never even hugged anyone other than his mother". I spit at his feet, disgusted, and walk down to the bus stop. As I reach the small little bus stop, I notice an old man sitting on the bench just a few feet away from me. His eyes are a deep blue, and filled with sadness. I feel sorry for him, so I go and sit beside him. We sit in silence for a few moments, and then suddenly he speaks to me. "So boy...You think that knife of yours is going to solve your problems?" I look at him, speechless for a moment, then notice that he is looking at my wrists. The long scars running from the tips of my fingers to my elbow. I look up into those blue eyes of his, a tear trickles down his cheek. He pulls out a small black wallet, revealing a picture of a young girl, about 11 years old. She has long black hair, and a very pretty white dress on. I realize...That girl...Is the one whom I devoted my life to so many years ago. The one who was taken away from me.
I'm sorry it was not very long Again, I will try to improve over the coming parts.
Second part...Again, not the best, and it will take me a LONG time to finish the story and edit it (also add more detail to certain parts) but whatever.
I stare in disbelief at the man, watching the tears slide down his cheeks. My eyes are cold. I recognize this mans face. I know who he is, and what he's done. He's the Father of the girl. I rise slowly from the bench, no longer feeling any sympathy for this poor waste of oxygen and space. I leave, holding back the anger welling up inside of me. Holding back the tears.
I scream, cracking the windowpane on the other side of the room. I slam my fist into the wall, breaking through, feeling the blood pouring from the open cuts. I rip my fist out from the hole, and run towards the cracked glass. I jump through, letting the glass pieces cut my face and arms open. I run into the night, embracing the darkness, letting the cold drops of rain pour down my face, washing some of the blood away. I'm screaming, running underneath the old streetlights, chasing after the flowing white dress. I turn round the corner onto a street without light. The only thing visible in the never ending darkness is a woman standing in a beautiful white wedding dress, beckoning to me. Telling me to come closer. I start walking at a quick pace towards her. As I approach, I notice she has no eyes, and blood is pouring from an open wound in her chest, revealing her heart and innards. I stop and stare at her in horror. She grins, and I notice the sharp rows of teeth which were once concealed behind the decaying lips. I scream.
I awake on the floor in a cold sweat, curled up in a ball. I start sobbing quietly to myself, and the sobs quickly turn into screams. I scream until my throat is dry, and my voice grows weak. I lay upon the floor until the dawn. I lay in the golden sunlight, waiting for something I know will not come. Eventually I get to my feet, and walk slowly over to the door. I twist the knob, letting the golden rays shine into the dark hallway. I walk slowly down the stairs, every few steps hearing a slight creak or groan from the floorboards. I reach the bottom and notice that the living room has been destroyed. Broken pieces of what used to be chairs strewn about the room. The TV had been thrown onto the floor, scattering shards of glass all over the place. They glinted in the sunlight like small diamonds. I notice small splotches of blood on the couch. Whoever did this must have cut themselves on the shards of glass from the TV. I sigh and walk over to the cupboard to get the broom and dustpan. As I'm reaching for the handle, I notice small, fresh cuts on my palms. I did this.
Last edited by Mr. Bubbles~; 11-05-2009 at 02:39 PM.
Elliot Ferral is not dead
First of all Bubbles, great, emotional stuff. You have me interested and the first person point of view really shines in your article, I'm not too good with the first person myself. I would love to see more, keep me posting.
Secondly, new fanfic I've got after I read a peace of more classic literature. The title is of course, "Elliot Ferral is not Dead"
The man banged his bound wrists against the wall in front of him. He could not see the wall, but he could feel it. It was cold, hard, with lines of lumpy matter over it in several places. It stung at the exposed flesh of his wrists, what little was left free from the rope that is, and he winched as he used all of his might to break free. The sound caused by the bangs was loud, and echoed and shuttered. His conclusion, the wall he was banging against was made of welded metal.
He then placed his hands along the side of his prison, began to trace the walls of. He did not have to put any effort into it, he discovered all the had to do was turn in a circle and he would complete the rotation. He jumped up, hitting the metal ceiling with his head. He shouted out in pain, and a small laughter was heard outside.
"Who is there?" The man asked.
The laughter increased in volume, a muffled, loud sound which touched every nerve in the man's body with its fiery passion. "Please," The man began as the laughter increased, "Please help me."
"Why should I take the risk, won't you feel your wrist?"
The man was confused, but now understood. The watch was still clamped tightly against his left wrist. He rose the screen to his face and felt heat. It was still on. If he died, he would be reborn in one of the vita chambers. The Vita chamber was a blessing, the only thing that kept him confident in this hell whole. A good thing that he was in Ryan's inner circle. Then again...if the voice outside belonged to who he thought it did...then his tormentor would have belonged to Ryan's inner circle as well.
"Elliot, is that you?" The man asked.
"Not the one you knew, no. He died and his fortunes did grow."
The voice responded. There was a coldness in it, something gripping and icy as death itself. Like a cold wind that came from the bottom of a deep well, it wanted no explanation, no laws of science to explain. The man had heard that Elliot, long ago his friend, had given in to the animal impulses of the city, but he did not want to believe it.
"Elliot, please...let me out of here."
"But my dear Fortunato what could I do, to a man so powerful and immortal as you?"
Fortunato? The man's name was most certainly not Fortunato...but he understood where this was going. "You never were one to come up with anything original Ferral, you're nothing but a hypocritical mad man who pretended to be a poet!"
The voice outside laughed again, "You've hit the nail on the head there. But as for originality...prepare." The last word had an a slow, snake-like hiss in it.
There was a trickling sound, and a cold wetness hit the man's shoulder, soaking into his clothing and spilling out onto the circular floor beneath him. First it was slow, but quickly increased in flow and volume. Soon, the liquid was up to his ankles. The man began to panic, he had always been afraid of drowning.
"FERRAL! ELLIOT! PLEASE!"
There was no response from the outside. The man began to slosh in the water, as he now guessed it was since it had a deep, salty tinge only found in the Atlanitc Ocean. He through his shoulders against the wall, with more and more force as the water had raised itself to his knees in the course of fifteen minutes. He felt a hot smudge on his shoulder, which he deduced to be blood caused by various cuts and bruises.
He kept at this for another fifteen minutes. No avail. The walls would not budge, nor did the water cease to adjust to sympathy. No it stood at his pectorals. Finally the voice answered.
"I would like you to understand your situation, in order to decrease your aggravations. You are safe."
The man held his breath.
"In a Vita Chamber."
The man sighed...for a few seconds until he realized his predicament.
"To experience death twice for sure, but most likely...much...more."
He then heard the loud pounding of footsteps grow farther and farther away. He cried out, the water gurgling into the bottom of his mouth. Soon it went above his head. He held his breath. His lungs burned like fire. He inhaled...taking the cold into his lungs with a searing pain.
Ah, I'm guessing you read the Cask of Amontillado, by Edgar Allen Poe?
The fact that you mention it hopefully means you have as well! Glad that story is being circulated still. As all Poe works should! I too saw Fortunato and immediatley thought of that. The torturer might as well be Montresor!
Originally Posted by Circus of Values
How I love the Rapture fanfics. Usually.
Last edited by Epstein_The_Swami; 12-12-2009 at 05:28 PM.
Down the rabit hole
"So m-my dear, w-what are you doing here again?" The man with a funny hat asked as he poured some brown liquid from a broken kettle. It was fancy blue China, the key word being "was" and like the man who wielded it, had countless scars. He poured it into a matching dirty cup, but it on a matching dirty plate, and held it out to the girl at the end of the table.
She shook her head and held out her hand. She wasn't thirsty, and she didn't trust the stuff in that cup. She had never seen tea that thick. "I'm looking for my father...he ran off a few days ago."
"S-some sort of r-raid?" The man asked with a smile, his teeth were yellow and gnarled like some Picasso werewolf.
She nodded. "Some group claims they can bring order...I dunno, but he was so taken with their speech, he just ran off. He's all I have left...so I need to find him."
"A-All b-by yourself?" He raised the tea cup to his hand, shaking violently and spilling the liquid onto his shirt, the stain was a particularly bright and loud shade of brown. "A-A g-girl your age should never be out by her-herself."
She smiled, "I'm 17, hardly a child anymore."
The man nodded and rolled his eyes, "Of c-course you are. They are all 17 these days." She hoped her eyes did not betray her as she tried to stare hard at the man. His brown coat was tattered, his green undershirt was stained with countless tea stains, his salt and pepper beard was disgustingly unkept. "Any n-notable features on your f-father?"
She nodded, "Last a saw he was wearing a white rabbit mask."
The man gave a chuckle. "You know...this reminds me of something." He began to give a low, deep, scratching laugh. He pounded the table and smashed his tea cup. In a quick flash of light, the tea turned red.
With a whispered gasp she rose slowly. With tiny, calculated steps she inched away from the table, the man in the large hat still in hysterics. Suddenly he looked up, and with a cold look in his eyes he snapped his fingers. Two marble hands came down on her shoulders.
"Now there," a voice behind her said, "Let's get that Adam out of you."
She gave a morbid, nervous laugh, "I'm not a little sister...I'm actually clean."
"Sure you are sweetheart, sure you are."
The hands clasped her and threw her onto the table, shattering the blood-filled kettle. "N-Now, my d-dear," The man in the big hat spoke, "H-Hold still."
The blade of a kitchen knife gleamed towards her eye, the cold feel of a gun's trigger was in her finger.
A bit lackluster when compared to your other fanfics, JLA, to tell you the truth. But still good regardless.
The same thing
In an effort to please you and anyone else reading my contributions to the thread, here is this next one:
Originally Posted by Circus of Values
He breathed in and pictured an endless Sahara licked by a merciless, dry wind. He exhaled and imagined some fat tabby scratching at the back of his cracked throat. He coughed and he imagined some hidden pool of nourishing liquid hiding, cruelly mocking his thirst from within his own lungs. He had been running for a whole day, ever since the shooting broke out in that place...that restaurant...what was its name? He heard a fast, sharp, metallic bee wizz over his head and ducked.
He fell flat on his face, but his brain felt so light that he didn't imagine he had anymore blood to spill. He was still for a few minutes, pretending to be dead (he wasn't too far away as it was) then looked up slowly. Arcadia? How the hell had he managed to get to Arcadia? Seeing no one was there, that the assailant had long passed, he told his brain to tell his limbs to move. His bones rattled and shook, and his muscles screamed in protest, working against themselves to keep the soul on the ground. After minutes of horrendous grunting, the man closed his eyes and gave into the angels.
Fire. Fire was everywhere.
Amid the thunder of shotguns and the pistol rains, a faint mist of blood rose up from the top of the floor. There the sources, his friend's, his family, his co-workers, the people he would nod his head to and his enemies all pulled into one terrible mix masqueraders posing as soldiers gunned them down.
Fontaine's Home for the poor.
He awoke in a coughing fit, a man in a bloodied white shirt standing over him. The man's mask was some terrible raven, a crooked beak and ebony countenance sneering up at the ceiling, at the sky, at the rest of the earth. Fortunately, it was shifted above the man's face and onto his forehead, the beak making him appear a unicorn. His face was covered in something (ash, blood, dirt, gundpowder?) and yet he wore a smile.
"Drink up friend." The man spoke and handed him a small tin flask.
He grabbed at it greedily, unscrewed the lid and poured the vile whiskey down his throat. It burned at his throat, boiled his stomach, and would one day destroy his liver. But the moisture made his mouth sing, he knew he was alive, that he would live. His mouth itched in thirst, but now it did not creak and moan in dryness.
"Easy, easy." The raven horned man spoke and gently lifted the flask away. "What'r you derring down 'ere?"
He listened to his own voice in surprise, it was so high and scared, "I want to live! I don't want what those people up there!"
"Which people?" The raven on the man's head eyed him suspiciously.
He didn't know how to answer. Those gun-toting maniacs? Those drunken party goers? Rapture? Warriors? Gods? Politicians? He simply shook his head violently.
"I've seen you before...friend."
And with that he reached at his belt and removed his pistol, just in time to see the barrel of a shotgun peering down at him. Either weapon in this scenario would yield the same results, holes in heads would be inevitable.
Now the raven headed man was screaming, "I WANT PEACE! I WANT EQUALITY! I WANT PROSPERITY! I WANT FOOD! FONTAINE GIVES THE PEOPLE THESE THINGS!" The man took several harsh breaths in, and the pattering of feet shook our protagonists head. "Tell me, Mr. Loyalist, what is it that YOU want, what is it that Ryan gives the people?"
The feet drew nearer. Everything would be decided in a few moments. "THE SAME THING!"
they should've hired you to help write some for bioshock two
Cool to see you still going after so long JLA.
how's it been guys?
bioshock two isn't so far away, so like i said, i'm gonna try and get on the forums more often again.
Cindy sat in a dark corner, her bare feet freezing. Her blonde hair carefully put in a brunette style. She did not like this hair style, but that was of no concern. Cindy was backed up against a large pillar, shivering. Cindy called out, "Father?!? Where are you? I'm scared!" but insteasd of her father appearing, a door slid open. A tall man walked through and saw her. He wore large rubber boots and a bloodied up smock. It looked like it used to be white. His torn white shirt sleeves revealed cuts. The man also wore yellow gloves and a surgical mask. His left eye was normal. The right looked different. His right eye was infected and two streams were coming from the eye. One stream was thin and red. Blood Cindy realized. The other stream was thick, goopy, and yellow. Puss... Cindy realized. The man's scalp was bruised and had scabs all over. He pulled out a large Revolver. "Come here, Little one..." the man said. Puss drooped from his eye to the floor. Cindy let out a scream but the man only increased his speed, now quickly walking towards her.He reached out a large, hairy arm and then there was a roar. The man yelped in pain and flew into a nearby vending machine. The vending machine had a clown on it and when the man slammed into it the vending machine let out a playful tune. Cindy looked up to see her savior only to see a large person in a diving suit single handedly holding a large Rivet gun. The person reached a hand out. Cindy was hesitant at first, but then she didn't know what happened. All she remembered was her hand grabbing his, them walking away together, and the words, "Hop Hop Mr. B!"
Last edited by Seasick; 01-23-2010 at 08:00 AM.
Noice SS, Noice.
This one is an audio diary. The characters names are Arnold Pym and Mr. A.
A loud hissing echoes in the background. Someone is breathing heavily. The speaker pops a couple of times, like someone was tapping it...nervously. A sigh is heard and the interview begins.
Pym: S-So why did you bring me here El-?
Mr. A: You call me Mr. A! You remember that now.
Pym: Yes-yes please! Just, just get that thing out of my face.
Mr. A: Of course I brought you here to discuss the future of our fair city. It'll be gone soon, you know? It's foundations are slowly slipping away and soon no body will be what they want anymore. The best and the brightest are slowly turning dull and dim. Don't you think that's a problem? Wouldn't you recommend something?
Pym: Y-Yes. Dr. Lamb is-
A gunshot is heard. Pym screams in pain. A raspy, quick series of cries are heard.
Mr. A: Don't you dare shed a tear!
A click is heard. The intake of snot is rapid and terrible.
Mr. A: Good boy. Mr. Gold, would you dress his foot? Now...Mr. Pym, please let me know why you think Dr. Lamb is any different from Andrew Ryan?
Pym: Sh-she wants (a pause is heard here in the tape) everyone has a role to play!
Mr. A: Ryan had roles for us, they were just different. Instead of contributing to the whole, we were contributing to ourselves! Is Dr. Lamb a communist?
Pym: No! NO!
Mr. A: Then WHAT is she?
Pym:...I don't know...
Mr. A: No one does. No one knew who Atlas was or who Ryan really was until he swam too long in his capital filth! All these people, they thing they are better than the best and the brightest. Well, we ARE still the best and the brightest, that is why things have gone the way they have. Because we are smart...because we are perfect! This is the naturally progression of society. This...is nature in its most perfect form:
And Dr. Lamb plans to destroy nature, to try to fight it. Well there is only one way to overcome nature, Mr. Pym. Do you know what that is?
Mr. A: To destroy it.
Pym: YOU'RE GOING TO BLOW US UP?
Mr. A: That is precisely what I am going to do, Mr. Pym
I was walking down the street and got hit by a nuke.
Okay, I'll try to make one, I am not isnpirated right now, and I'm just starting to write for serious.
my first BioShock "story" is here, and I write it as it goes :P
Please be kind XD
The building was quiet. No sounds other than the broken light bulbs trying to shine just once. Three people were in the place, together, walking silently, almost floating through the carpet in the hallway, searching. One of the men said "Okay, I'm sure they're around here, we're gonna make it". It was so quiet that a normal person could barely hear it, but they were used to it, used to the shadows, the silent, the sneaky movement, their ears could catch even the most sensible sound. Soon the reached a relatively open area. The apartment suites were almost destroyed, and a few rooms had an entrance, but they needed to search them desperately, any usable object was a great advantage, especially if they ran into "Them". The woman -at least what was left of what they used to call a "Woman"- nodded, which meant that they had to separate. The other two replied with a nod as well, and they took different paths, each one into a different apartment.
The man named Billy went into the first open apartment, and he closed the door behind him. He was not afraid, of course, he had been doing the same thing for years, and he was used to be alone. It was difficult at first, after all, no company means getting bored quickly, so he had to learn to talk to himself and try to bring up new stuff every day. But eventually that was taken away from him too. Now his mind was his only company, his only true friend. He checked every inch of the apartment, under the bed, behind the mirrors, the pictures and the drawers. It was deserted, and the people who used to leave there -or maybe burglars- took every single thing that could be sold or traded. Except......Billy smiled as he approached the safe, in the corner of the bedroom. It was too big and heavy to move, and it was locked -which porbably meant that the apartment was robbed by a single man-, but this didn't stop Billy. He had saved one of the rare Auto hacking devices that he found last year buried in the ground. He could use it to open the safe, but if it was empty or had no valuable things inside, it could be his -"their", he reminded himslef- doom. However, he tried to open it with codes, he had found a lot of them throughout the months, in pockets, inside shoes, even written in hands, and he wrote every single one of them in case it was neccesary. He took his notepad, all dirty and ragged, and started using the codes. After 10 minutes or so, he finished, but none of them had been correct. "Screw it", he thought. "I'm tired of saving stuff. It's all or nothing"
He was about to use it, when he heard a noise. He turned around quickly, looking around while grabbing his weapon, a lead pipe. After a while, he calmed down. "Was it a noise or am I just paranoid?" He thought. "Well, what were we doing?" And he turned again to the safe.
He didn't notice the big mannequin in the other room, the one that was moving.
I hope it wasn't too boring, or obvious. If you want I'll continue with the story, the are still 2 left, and if you don't want to, then okay :P
Thanks for your time and sorry if you didn't like it, I am just starting and I still have some problems when writing in English.
Here's my BS2 story accounting the Family's hopeless final assault against Delta and Eleanor at Persephone's docking platform.
We are tired. We are battered. Our men are dying. Even now, our remaining strength is steadily depleting. All hope is lost.
Even now as we speak, the "two" are mopping up what remains of our Family. But what is worse is that even if we survive, the knowledge that the "two" will escape to the surface while the deaths of our comrades unavenged, we will be forever scarred of such humiliating defeat. We only have two options now; victory or death.
Dr. Sofia Lamb assembled the remnants of our once-great splicer army and a small contingent of Alpha big daddies/Little Sisters at the heart of Persephone where the traitorous Eleanor was once confined. I was appalled to see the great doctor don a Big Sister suit, wearing a cape with a butterfly drawing, holding her helmet on one hand. Some of our people carried banners with the butterfly symbol in hopes that it will raise morale; they succeeded at some point.
Last edited by jokerthesplicer; 04-05-2010 at 04:53 PM.
Originally Posted by PureNukage
The official fanfic thread
If you are trying to find a link to a story, please post all information you recall about that story in this thread and someone should be able to help you ...
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Not a fanfic, but I feel it belongs here.
Bob The Balor.
No one's posted in this for a long while, but I wrote this and thought it deserves to be read:
In the not so distant future, the year 2037, a deadly virus called Solanum swept across the globe, infecting millions, and killing even more. Hereís the estimated numbers: Infected, 17,942,754 Dead, 5,418,976,043. Impossible? Hardly.
You see, when youíre infected, it begins with a high fever of about 99 degrees to 103 degrees. After that, thereís the chills, the dementia, numbing of the extremities, complete paralysis of the lower body, coma, and finally heart stoppage. Zero brain activity. But here comes the catch. They didnít stay dead. Reanimation occurred about 4 hours after death. They come back as mindless ghouls, unkillable, unless the brain is destroyed. They eat human flesh, and moan constantly when they find it. These ďzombiesĒ exist only for one thing. To feed.
I was just turning 25 when Patient Zero became infected, at my birthday party, in fact. I was hanging around outside with my friends Jeff and Joey, having a smoke, when we heard screams coming from inside. My friend, Trevor had died.
I dialed 9-1-1, and told the ambulance where to go. As we heard the sirens coming, about 15 minutes later, we carried Trevor outside and into the ambulance. Too bad we didnít know we had just doomed hundreds of millions of people.
The next day on the news, I heard a story about an ambulance that had crashed, last night. The reporter said that the bodies of the driver and the doctor had been found with human bite marks all over them. Trevor was nowhere to be seen. The employees died later at the hospital, and infected surgeons, nurses, and other patients. Before anyone had time to think, the whole hospital was infected. Two months later, New York City. Another few months and Los Angeles was forsaken. By the end of the year, the only safe place in the United States was Columbus, Ohio. Well, crap.
Day 397: I was sitting near the fortified gate of the Columbus stronghold, when a small group of zombies came walking, no, shambling, towards us guards. I calmly picked up my M1 Carbine semiautomatic rifle, and picked them off rapidly, each pull of the trigger killing one. This happened a lot, as Columbus used to be a city full of people. Itís a ghost town now.
Day 409: Jeff and I were walking down the main road when the alarm was sounded. We were under attack! Not by zombies, though. Raiders, brigands, whatever you want to call them. They are a group of humans who ride around destroying any remaining civilization. They burn the men, rape the women, and enslave the children. We rushed to the main gate, rifles at the ready, picking them off one by one. In about an hour, we had pushed them away, but at the cost of 11 of our soldiers.
Day 432: Ryan, one of my friends, died today. He was on a patrol when a horde of zombies swarmed on him and ripped him apart. We found his arm, head, and a toe while scouting in the woods.
Day 434: Quis homo dissipabit. This morning while in the city, I saw a raider eating another human. I shot him in the chest, and it killed him. This was no zombie, and it was no zombie attack. This was cannibalism.
Day 449: The town doctor died today, completely devoured by a horde of ravenous zombies. Now, since he was the only doctor here, pneumonia could be as dangerous as a zombie.
Day 462: Our civilization is rapidly deteriorating. People die every other day, and the population is down to 73 people. I have, after a lot of thought, decided to leave the village. I will need to pack up supplies, make a list, and plan my route, so I will leave in about 10 days.
Day 472: I am leaving now. It is 1:00 A.M. and I am at the gate. Everyone is asleep, and itís the perfect time to leave. I am leaving my typewriter here, and I will have to record my journey by hand. I am opening the gates, going into the unknown, into the outside world, the worldÖ of the dead.
Day 1 out of the village. I am heading across the sea to Europe, where, hopefully, the infection has not struck. I will record my journey in this journal, and, hopefully when the world is back to normal, someone will find it and say, ďHey, someone survived.Ē And, someone did.
Day 4 in the outside world: I was hunting in the woods when I came across a zombie. This was nothing special because there were zombies all over the place. The special thing was that this was Patient Zero. My old friend Trevor. I did what I would do in any normal zombie encounter; I shot its head with my M1 Carbine. It was only after I had disposed of it that I saw who it was. But living in a world like this hardens you. Makes you tough. I no longer feel sad for friends or family that are lost to the infection. It makes you sick, what this virus has done to the world.
Day 8: I saw a raider camp today. It was full of them. Not raiders, zombies. They had ambushed the raiders in the night, and completely destroyed the camp. There were a few zombies wearing raider uniforms, but most of them were wearing normal, everyday citizen clothes. I took a wide path around the camp. Better to stay out of a potentially deadly situation than waste unnecessary ammo.
Day 9: I found a typewriter and a stack of typing paper out in a log cabin today. I will no longer have to hand-write all of my entries, thank god.
Day 9, later: I have decided to stay in the cabin for a while, because it is in an ideal spot to find food, and itís also near a spring where I can get water.
Day 24: I am leaving the cabin now. I held out pretty well in it, with just a few small groups of zombies coming along every once in a while, but I have to keep moving. I have to get to another country where, hopefully, itís not like America. I have to get away from all this chaos.
Day 26: I am trying to conserve ammo as best I can, but I think that, at this rate, I will soon run out. Once I do, Iíll be vulnerable to everything. Zombies, raiders, they will spell doom for me.
Day 30: I found a M1 Garand semiautomatic rifle today, which I have already decided is way better than my Carbine. It has about 150 rounds of ammo, so I am going to keep my Carbine with me anyway.
Day 31: I found another survivor today. I donít know her name because she doesnít remember it. I donít remember my name either. No one remembers names anymore, after so long fighting to survive. We donít have time for names.
Day 39: My partner was bitten today while searching for food. She was infected, so I left her. But she followed me and told me to shoot her in the head. She would rather have died than become one of them. Who wouldnít? So I did what she told me to do. I felt like a horrible, evil person while I did it, though. I hate the world, what its done to me, what its done to everyone, everything.
Day 43: I finally made it to the ocean today, but the only boat is a raider camp. Iíll have to find a different boat.
Day 45: After 2 days of walking along the shore, I have found another boat, which I can use to sail to Europe. Iím so close, yet so far.
Day 1 on the boat: I set out to Europe today. My destination will be the U.K., and I think I will be there in about a month.
Day 36 on the boat: I made it to my destination today. I will need to journey farther inland before I can reach London.
Day 40: I think I am near London now, and I have seen no zombies yet, which is good.
Day 43: I made it to London today. I left though. It was completely burned to the ground. The only thing left was rubble and the blackened skeletons of the citizens who were burned alive in that great city which had become a death trap.
Day 50: I saw something horrible today. I came upon a huge swarm of zombies, at least 5,000 of them. I ran from them as fast as I could. What else could I have done?
Day 54: Today I found a blood-splattered newspaper with the headline ďOver 60% of the United Kingdom Now InfectedĒ. It was dated about 3 years ago. This country has been infected longer than the U.S.
Day 54, later: There are too many zombies here. Around every corner there is a few of them, at least. I read the rest of the newspaper, and I learned that every continent on Earth was completely infected. North America was the last to go.
Day 56: I have had enough of this world. It is too crazy for me to be on it anymore. It is like this is some cruel punishment for something I did before. Itís like torture. I have decided I am going to kill myself. It is a hard decision, but one I have to make if I am going to escape these things. This will be my last entry. I am leaving now.