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Starting Occupation: Private
Group Membership: Majestic 12
Goals: Accomplish his orders, and survive at the same time
Username: See above
More details: Urban Dead profile

OOC Note

This journal is on an indefinite hiatus, and probably won't be updated again. I'm keeping it here for posterity, although the [[Category:Journals]] tag has been removed.

NOTE: I have "reinserted" the tag, as otherwise this page shows up on Special:Uncategorised Pages. (Technically, I've done jack shit, the guy never commented it out in the first place.) –Xoid STFU! 09:15, 31 May 2006 (BST)


On it is written:

This belongs to the man who answers to the name "KingRaptor". There's nothing in here. Put it down and walk away. Forget you ever saw this. NOW!

PS: Didn't your parents teach you not to touch other people's belongings without permission?

PPS: In case they didn't, I find that a 230-grain .45ACP round works wonders at teaching people ethics.


(The text appears to have been very recently written.)

Why the hell am I writing this?

Maybe it's because I decided to keep a journal after finding one belonging to another survivor in this God-forsaken city. A Lt.John Hawke, 82nd Airborne, US Army. He makes me proud.

Anyways, I guess this writing helps me relieve tension. Tension built up from being in a city filled with these...things. Scrounging and huddling with other people hiding from them. And dealing with them every single fucking day.

On a side note, why am I using my code name in my own journal? Maybe I'm just plain paranoid. Then again, paranoia is what keeps one alive in an environment like this. Should these journal fall into the wrong hands, I do not wish to be compromised.

Not that it matters anyway. All that counts now is living to see another day. - KingRaptor


What happened again back then?

The Beginning

The Malton Pandemic

We had all read the news reports. First, it was just a disease spreading around. Bunch of riots as a result. Nothing to be worried about, says Downing Street. Yeah, right.

It wasn't long before the city of Malton was brought under quarantine. The outbreak was "worse than originally anticipated". No kidding, Mr.PM?

Suddenly, things went downhill from there. Reports trickled in about how this wasn't just any disease, it had strange properties which no-one wanted to discuss. Something about how it horrifyingly deformed the sufferer's body, literally 'zombifing' him or her. Initially, the reports were dismissed as being so ridiculous as to be unbelievable. Still, MJ12 HQ in Philadelphia put us on Code Yellow.

Then there was the horrible footage which was broadcast all over the world. A bunch of journaljizmers were interviewing the captain of one of the military checkpoints on the outskirts of Malton, when suddenly a woman ran screaming towards them. A soldier yelled at her to stop, but she continued screaming hysterically and coming. She was closing in too fast. The chap leveled his SA80A2 rifle, took aim and fired. She collapsed to the ground.

Then they saw why she was running: those...things. Zombies. And not just any zombies; these were clearly advanced, highly mutated forms. They came running at the checkpoint.

The troops opened fire. The zombies were lit up, and the camera caught footage of it all.

According to the reporter, someone moved in to confisicate the camera, but then a couple of UN observers showed up, and the troops had to back off and let it go.

Needless to say, there was a huge uproar. All manner of organizations and political entities demanded unfettered access to Malton. London came under some really serious fire.

One quiet night, we were called to a meeting by the branch commander. Apparently, MJ12 wanted to take advantadge of the situation.

Tactical Situation

The plan was relatively simple. A small team would be inserted covertly, to confirm the presence of these zombies, get some basic intel on them, and if deemed necessary, stay in Malton and battle them. Fair enough, I thought.

Then the bullshit started. First, they mentioned that extraction might be difficult if not outright impossible, and even if they could do it we'd be quarantined for extended periods of time. Aw, man...

Next, they told us that "in order to maintain a low profile, we would only be issued sidearms. Just...WTF? Do these desk jockey nitwits actually expect us to go into a high-threat combat zone without proper armament? They couldn't even give us our god damned M4A1 carbines, for the love of God! Just what kind of an excuse is "in order to maintain a low profile", anyway? Oh, sure, like these black combat uniforms and the insertion method (rappelling from a chopper) wasn't going to scream "black ops" anyway. Dumbasses.


We would be going in by air. Since the British military made frequent supply drops, our V-22 Osprey (with a sleek black paint job) wouldn't elicit too much attention from the locals, and the cover of night would (hopefully) prevent the military from finding us.

The chopper swooped in low over the city. We did a last minute check on our gear, secured the ropes, and prepared to go in. The Osprey had almost reached the LZ...

..when suddenly a flare wooshed past the cockpit and struck the left rotor. As the engine flamed out, the inexperienced pilot panicked and swerved the aircraft, destabilizing it and sending it downwards. With only one engine, there was no way it could fly, and it spiralled down.


I must've lept from the chopper just before it hit, because I ended up several feet from the wreckage, dazed but relatively unscathed. I turned to look at the wreckage - a flaming mess of twisted aluminium and carbon fiber.

No survivors. Damn.

An insertion screw-up. Just the perfect way to start the operation.

I checked my gear: My trusty Colt M1911A1 pistol, two spare magazines, three day's worth of food and other provisions, a map of Malton, and my radio. I whipped out the communication device.

"This is Raptor One. Come in, Limey Base."

"Limey Base to Raptor One. Status report, over."

"Operation is FUBARed. Insertion vehicle downed, entire team KIA. Request immediate extraction, over."

The answer shocked me.

"Negative, Raptor One. Continue with mission. I repeat, continue with Operation Pathfinder."

Stunned, I yelled back "What?!"

"Mission is not, I repeat, not aborted. Furthermore, extraction is not possible. Continue with objectives. Confirm presence of zombies and obtain actionable intel on them."

"I am unable to..."

"Raptor One, need we remind you of the consequences of field agents not carrying out their others to perfection?"


"You have your orders, Raptor One. Limey Base out."

I was clearly getting the shaft from Command.

On The Ground

With nothing left to do, I checked my map. The most I could figure out was that I was in the surburb named Yagoton. According to the briefing, it was supposedly a low-threat area.

Walking around a little, I saw a good place to locate additional supplies: a police station. Jogging down the quiet night street towards it, I was pretty relaxed...

..until I came face-to-face with a zombie.

It was hideous, a mass of walking decomposed flesh and skin. Its clothes were tattered, and boy was it ugly. It groaned loudly and started coming at me.

Fear gripped me and I stepped back.

Then, I remembered my training and combat experience. Something took over my mind, and I calmly drew my pistol and aimed.

I pulled the trigger three times in rapid succession. All three rounds struck him center mass. He reeled backwards from the impact, but then continued shambling towards me, groaning incoherently.

This was bad. I squeezed off three more rounds, the first two missing and the third striking him in the gut. He was clearly wounded, but showed no signs of giving up.

With my magazine empty, I hurriedly pulled back the slide and slipped a fresh one in. Resisting my fear, I took aim again and fired twice. One .45ACP round struck him in the face, and he staggered backwards, The other connected with his shoulder.

He still refused to give up, and I was getting desperate.

Think clearly, Raptor. Think clearly.

With cold, solid precision, I looked down the ironsights and emptied the rest of the magazine into him.

Two bullets pierced his heart, another went through his face and the last struck him in the neck. He stood there for a while, then collapsed.

Just the first of what was going to be an endless list of kills.


Since then, I've been fighting the zombies, ruthlessly exterminating them wherever I encounter them. Of course, I have not neglected the scientific aspect of this battle, and usage of the Necrotech DNA extractor is a regular undertaking for me. I even learned to upload the results to MJ12 as well as N-Tech. The revivification syringe is also a staple of mine, for it is, as we have discovered, the only way to prevent the zombies from regenerating and rising again to haunt us, and the means of bringing back fallen comrades. I have also been a beneficiary of the syringe a couple of times.

When extraction turned out to be impossible, I learnt the ways of the streets of Malton. I learnt to barricade buildings to keep the zombies out so that survivors like me may gather supplies, eat and sleep in peace. I studied first aid. I also do a lot of menial work and running, allowing me to become more resillent and faster.

I also took the liberty of forming the local MJ12 branch, recruiting capable survivors to become part of the direct military response to the zombies as ordered by Command.

I will live through this nightmare. I will prevail.


Journal Entries

November 23, 2005

Scrounging for revivification syringes was never a favourite pastime of mine. Usually, the only things you find are those damn GPS units and DNA extractors. I'm not saying those items are worthless, far from it, but one is enough, mmmkay?

Then again, I shouldn't be complaining, considering I found four syringes in very short order.

I've set the lower members of MJ12 on a quest to locate the mobile phone mast in East Becktown and power them up. Re-establishing communication in this city is going to help a lot if we're going to defeat the zombie threats.

East Becktown remains relatively safe for experienced survivors, thank's to the PLEB's systematic barricade plan and level of intel gathering. Despite the high number of zombies in the area, feeding is difficult for them. Heh-heh. Stupid zombies.

I shouldn't be writing this. I have work to do.

November 25, 2005

After three whole days of ransacking the damned N-Tech building, I finally met my syringe quota. These things are pretty fragile, and imperfect. Lord knows how many tales of syringes being wasted on zombies with decomposed neural systems there are.

I was planning to do a quick recon on Ackland Mall today, but I didn't have the time. There were two zombies in the museum nearby. I wasn't aware zombies were able to appreciate fine culture. Heh. Fatigue was setting in, so I swiftly dispatched one zombie and wounded the other before retreating to a safer (and more comfortable) place for the night.

Later that night...

I couldn't really sleep. Don't know why, these hospital beds are definitely more comfy than the floor of a mall.

I decided to take a walk, like I always do. Wounded survivors often come to hospitals for treatment. Today there were quite a few of them, with all manner of cuts and bite wounds. With two medkits to spare, I treated one of them, this guy...hmm, I forgot his name. Not that it matters, helping others is always good.

I'll deal with Ackland Mall tomorrow.

November 27, 2005 head hurts.

My teammate Celin was kneeling in front of me, an empty syringe in hand.

"You ok, sir?"

"Yeah, thanks," I respond.

A quick check of my belongings shows that everything is in place, including the mobile phone I got shopping here in Ackland.

"There are still zombies around," Celin informs me.

"I know." Going back into the mall, I find the interior relatively secure, although the mall appears to be under assault. Grabbing some ammunition, I leave and decide to stay somewhere safer.

We'll be back soon, you undead scum...just you wait.

November 29, 2005

Where did all the zombies go? Ackland Mall is fortified, and there are no zulus anywhere around it.
Oh well.

Stopping by Lukinswood, I saw two zombies outside Lukins Auto Repair (heh). Several pistol clips, three shotgun blasts and a single swing of the axe dispatched them both.

Only a few more days to go. Whipping ouy my mobile phone, I left messages for the rest of the team. Orders to assemble at Kirkwood Lane Fire Station.

I'm pretty tired of running all over the god damned place shooting zombies left and right, leaping across buildings, and ransacking buildings. I need a god damned vacation.

December 5, 2005

Welcome to Ridleybank. The heart of the undead territory, now a battleground for survivors looking to retake the area and zombies defending what they view as their own turf.

Happened to stop by a hospital today. The Ridleybank Resistance Front was at work, and a few zombies had just breached the barricades of this particular structure. I had to deal with them quickly.

Drawing my Colt M1911A1s, I swiftly laid down sweeping crossfire. Each pull of the trigger sent one .45ACP round into the head of an undead beast. As I ejected the magazines from the pistols, the zombies collapsed to the floor.

"You stole my kill!" I could hear a woman shouting.

Looking up from the bodies on the floor, I saw her. A well-built yound lady with that aura of aggression around her.

"Stole your kill? I helped you dispatch them! If anything, you should be thanking me."

"Whatever. Killing these undead beasts is more important than my pride," she said, lowering her voiuce a little, she said.

"Mheh. Exterminating these zombies is my priority, too. Ammunition is starting to run short, though."

"I haven't resupplied since Caiger," she remarked cooly. "Anyway, this position is untenable. I'll be next door if you need me."

"Well, I'll be going too, Ms....?"

"Lokys. Lokys the Wrath."

I chuckled a little. "Well, just remember the name KingRaptor," I said as I left the building.

I checked my pistols. All except one were empty. A few shotgun slugs were still loaded into the barrels of my sawn-offs, though. I quickly sprinted for the safety of the nearest police department.

December 7, 2005

"Forget about Ridley! We are cutting our losses and pulling out!"

I'm still checking my wounds for second infections. Damned RRF broke into the PD twice and the library once. Each time, I got bitten and infected. Fortunately, there were two nearby hospitals.

I knew it was only a matter of time until the undead smashed down the barricades of the police department and cleaned it out permenantly. Good thing I chose to sleep somewhere else under the principle of "twice bitten, thrice shy".

There was no way we could hold our positions. I turned and ran for Floyde Stadium.

December 17, 2005

(The journal has bloodstains on it. "Graaagh! Eat harmans!" is scribbled on the page.)

December 24, 2005

Life, death? The line between the two is starting to smudge, as I experience more and more seamless transistions between the two.

During my period of death, I seeked out other survivors and brought them into the folds of unlife which shackled me and the other zombies in Malton. How many victims did I claim? Three, four?
Strangely enough, I feel no remorse for my actions. Perhaps it is the understanding that I was not myself when I commited those acts, I could not help it. Or it could be the grim nihilism that eventually overtakes every survivor in Malton, for when facing the armies of the undead, you soon learn that your first and only priority is your own survival.

Not that I care, anyway.

It's snowing outside, and things are starting to quiet down. Maybe I can finally take that break I need so badly.

Merry Christmas.