I'm just gonna update my story here from now on. Tiller has made it clear to me that I do not update enough. My last real update was in December.
I'm fine, btw.
This is hell.
I'm in hell.
It's all coming apart.
Bits of skull and brain matter pain the walls. The air reeks of death: the metallic smell of blood, mixed with the stench of urine, feces, and charred flesh. I can hear their incessant moaning, and their fists beating on the glass. The staircase has been destroyed, and the doors and windows are boarded up. No one can get in...for now.
And I can't et out.
I can't remember the last time I felt the sun on my face. I can't remember the last time I saw my team. My friends. The only family I have left. They could all be dead, for all I know. Richard could be dead. My Richard.
I could be all alone. The only one left.
Fuck, what am I talking about? I am
Alone in the dark.
This wasn't supposed to happen. We had a plan. A fucking plan. I knew it wasn't foolproof, but I never expected this. At this point, I'll be lucky to see nightfall. Doors don't last forever; too bad the undead can.
When word got out that the world was in crisis, people went insane. Best friend killed one another, husbands killed their wives, babies were strangled in their cribs. No one was prepared for this new S - Solanum.
Tell the world about a virus that is 100 percent communicable and 100 percent fatal, and the people tend to go insane - just for future reference.
The people wanted answers, and the governments weren't paying up. Riots ensued. Buildings were burnt to the ground. Walls were destroyed. Eventually, camps confining the infected were broken into, and the ghouls were set free.
The world went from a Class 3 outbreak to a Class 4 in a matter of days.
We live in a world where the undead rule.
In the rush to get the fuck out of the city and somewhere safe, I got separated from my team. I've barricaded myself in this abandoned house, and I wait for the day I see Richard and the team again. I sleep during the day, my hands never leaving my shotgun. At night, I obsessively try to get a hold of Rich through the radio. I don't know how much longer the batteries will last.
I find myself praying more and more to a god that will not save me. A god I do not believe in. Praying I'll make this one out alive. But the more I pray for survival, the less I want to survive.
With every passing minute, I find it more and more difficult to resist putting the muzzle of this handgun against my temple and squeezing the trigger.
If there is an angel of death, may he have mercy on me and take me away from here.
When that crises siren first sounded, I was not ready to die. But now...I'd welcome it with open arms.