Journal:Prometheus Jones

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Private Journal and Field Reports

July 1, 2006

The local command office said it would be helpful to keep one of these things. One day we will beat the zeds and the future generations will need to know what happened here. Yah, no one will want to remember, but that makes it all the more important, I guess. Any ways, I was never very good at these things, but I guess I'll start at the begging.

My name is Prometheus Jones. No, really. Go ahead, laugh it up, but it's not my fault. My parents were hippies. They had given up all of that by the time I was born, settled down to be college professors, but in their heart it was still the 60's. Go figure. Anyways my childhood was the same as any other I suppose. Did most of the stuff the regular kids did. Moved to Malton my last year of highschool. My mom had got a job in semi-retirement as an expert in women's art at one of the older local art muesems. When I turned 18, I ran off, but we don't need to talk about that. Finally, I came back here, settled down, joined the Fire Department.

That's where I was when it all hit the fan. I was out on call, some kid's had pulled a fire alarm at school. Again. We knew it was a false alarm, but what are you gonna do. Anyways, we were headed up to the school, and makin' damn fine time too. In fact, we were making better time then any man's got a right to in Malton. We tried calling in to the station to see if they knew what was going on, but the radio was busted. We figured we were just suffering from election year funding cuts to 'stimulate the economy'. We turned a corner, taking a short cut up through some warehouses, when we saw this group of people rioting in the streets.

At least we thought they were people.

Wether it was sirens, the big red truck, or the smell of fresh meat that called them, I'll never know, but the whole group turned on us. This slow moving wall of putrid flesh. The driver popped it in reverse and gunned it out of there as fast as we could. With all the smoke from our burning tires I guess he didn't see the fire hydrant and we backed right into it. The back wheels were off the ground, and a gyser was blasting around us. The wave of rotten flesh was pressing in towards us. We made the only decision we could. We agreed to split up and run for it, and try to meet back up at the fire house.

That's how I ended up here. I made my way across the suburbs, traveling at night and avoiding any place where too many people congregated. When I arrived at the fire house there were plenty of survivors there, but not my team. Maybe they got out, maybe they didn't, I don't know. Now I've contacted what's left of the MFD, humanities last hope and all-that-crap. All I know is, the zeds are stronger that we are and can't be killed. If we don't stick together we don't have a hope in hell of making out of the city alive. All I can do is give 'em the axe.

July 5, 2006

Commander: This entry has been censored to protect the where abouts of surivors.

They say in the morning everything looks better. Whoever said that was a liar. I have seen four sun rises since joining up with the remenants of the fire department. Each one is worse then the last. It's like 'Apocalypse Now' without the rockin' soundtrack. The stench of death hangs like a fog in the streets. If this wasn't home I wouldn't mind. This hell can not be the place were I grew up.

<CENSORED> Mall is now a burnt out husk. At the <CENSORED> Plant I ambushed a zed. An injured, pathetic creature. I smashed it's head in with an axe. Looking at the reamins of that, thing, that used to be human all I could think of was being a kid, and sneaking into the factory before it was opened. Do kids even do that anymore. I guess there aren't kids anymore. Any one who has survived this long in Malton can't be called a kid.

When I'm not patroling, I'm training. If you can call it that. The more grizzled survivors hand us hard earned lessons in tactics. We study fighting with an axe. Mostly we just make it up as we go along though. I mean, how can you teach someone how to win against a monster that's stronger, damn near impossible to kill and knows no fear.

July 6, 2006

No rest for the wicked. I just got back from running the South East corner of the 'Burb. Just got word in from on high that they're going to pin something on me for my good recon work. It's supposed to be an honor, but it's probably just an excuse to throw me back out there again. The only prize that matters here is surviving.

Packs of zeds roam the streets looking for easy prey, though some have been trying to break into buildings. Several former safe houses had been broken open. There were no surviors. The fragile links of communications have been totally smashed. Listen to me, I'm turning into some kind of poet now. Powers out, and that means no radio transmitters or phone towers working either. I hope no one is left alive, hiding in there, because there will be no way for them to call in back up.

I've heard a lot of talk around the fire station about hordes of zombies operating under hive minds. I always thought that was jut boogie man stuff. Now I know it's real. What's capable of doing what's out there is an army, no matter how you wanna slice it. They're organized. God help us all.