User:Emby/Allison Craig

Journal Entry 1

 It’s a nice day.
 
 It’s also the first day I’ve dared to step foot outside, my wounded hand inexpertly wrapped. The last time I saw someone was on Monday, or what I think was Monday. Maybe it was Tuesday. But then that would make today Sunday, which means that yesterday was Saturday, and I didn’t write in my journal like I do every Saturday, so since I’m writing today, it must be Saturday and it was Monday.
 
 It’s been five days and five nights. Let’s put it that way.
 
 This is a new journal. The fate of the last one was unfortunate. I hate how wobbly my handwriting looks; I can barely hold a pen and it keeps splotching the page. It’s not from a bite, praise whatever damned God would put me in a situation like this. No, I fell on broken glass, while running away. Who knows what I slipped on.
 
 I get ahead of myself.
 
 Where was I? Oh yes, it’s a nice day. From the sounds I heard, it’s been raining outside for awhile, and now I see that the street I’m on is flooded. Perhaps the drain got something stuck in it… like a torso, perhaps, bloodied and chewed on. How morbid. 
 
 My shoes are ruined, so I stepped carefully, aware that one misstep could send me ankle-deep into the great lake that had now overtaken the street, which would lead to my walk being filled with a miserable squelching from the destroyed sneakers. They were probably white at one time; now the fabric is stained a muddy red and caked with dirt.
 
 The street was empty, but even the sound of my own breathing made me nervous. I have a cough, probably from spending all that time in the abandoned, dusty house I’d made my home, its cracks chinked by cloth. It’d been looted, so I had to make do with my small supply of food and the half-empty carton of bottled water bottles that I had discovered cleverly hidden under a bed. It’s the hunger that drove me away.
 
 My jacket is in good shape, because I lucked out, but despite the deceptively bright sunshine it is cold. Not quite cold enough to frost the brave clumps of plants that are so rarely growing here and there. Born and raised in Malton, was I, and it was such a different place then.
 
 I picked my way down the street, peering nervously behind me and around me. Among the things I carry with me? Contacts. The street was clear, but at the end of the next block on my right, there was a figure, illuminated clearly by the harsh and unforgiving sun.
 
 Perhaps it smelled me. Maybe I was too loud. But I swear that it was shuffling its way towards me, silent. It was slow, like all of them are, perhaps because it had been disgustingly obese in life and was now stranded without the usage of functional motor skills after death.
 
 A destroyed t-shirt hung off of torn rolls of fat, dyed red, and I think I could see organs if I looked hard enough in the shreds of the shirt. The right arm was at a strange angle, and there was a gleam of chipped white bone emerging from the elbow. It was bald, and gashes ruined the domed skull where hair had begun to grow back in a fuzz. Its’ face was completely destroyed by what appeared to be a bite that had festered, overtaking the left side and leaving small dark eyes glittering deep in their sockets. Then it occurred to me if I could see all this detail, why, it was too damned close to me!
 
 It was like I was frozen. I could see it lumbering towards me, the teeth in the slack jaw ringed by a bloodstained mouth, the uninjured arm grasping at thin air. There was first a sort of half-moan, characterized by the base animalistic longing, and then something much louder that echoed in the emptiness of the block, a hungry groan.
 
 I have a gun, of course, I’m not stupid. But I’m not good with it, and the fear that had caught hold of me, mixed in with my exhaustion, made my fingers tremble with it as I withdrew it and tried to get a couple of bullets in the chamber. The zombie was closer than ever, still making that loud, hungry groan, and I forced the locked legs in my muscles to take steps backwards, to put some distance as I tried to load the gun with what seemed an agonizingly slow pace.
 
 As I write this, I know I would’ve won. I would’ve put a bullet in that bastard’s head and I would’ve kept walking, despite the peculiar freeze-up I’d experienced after seeing just ONE of them. It’s been a month and a half, I’ve seen hordes, and just one fat zombie managed to send me shivering! I’m a pathetic survivor. I’d just swung the gun upwards, clicked off the safety, aimed, and the zombie fell before me.
 
 Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t take a shot. The bang came from behind me, down at the other end of the street. Talk about accuracy. I’m surprised, even now, at how you can plant a bullet from that range between a zombie’s eyes and be a civilian. It was a resounding thud that marked the second death of the zombie, although it’d be up in a couple hours. One reason why we can’t win.
 
 “Haven’t you learned by now to kill it BEFORE it makes a feeding groan?” He said when he got closer to me, his voice a low mutter, the tinkling of a bullet shell as it hit the ground punctuating his words as he shot the fat zombie again. For good measure, of course.
 
 That was how I met Jan.

 Stop for the night... It's time I got some rest. I'll catch up tomorrow, during the meager thing they call lunch. Perhaps.

Journal Entry 2

 He was, he told me as we walked back, from Germany, which explained the faint accent I’d heard earlier, but he’d lived in Malton for five years now. He didn’t tell me his last name (quick explanation here – Most people don’t use their last name; and many go by aliases. Yeah, like an internet thing or whatever. It sounds stupid, but I met someone last week who went by the name Survivor 6942, and then Luke Skywalker. When the zombie apocalypse happens, you can be whoever you want.), but he shook my hand, a rare thing. Even after this short time, people are distrustful.

 He’s taller than me, another rare thing. His hair is a dark blonde, long, shaggy around his face and a little curly, dark blue eyes and a nose that’s a little too big for his face, the lips thin. His clothes are remarkably clean, making me feel a little embarrassed, but hey. Zombie apocalypse hasn’t been good to me. I’m thinner than I should be at my height, and let’s not talk about the state of my hair. There’s a gash on my left cheek, too, that hasn’t helped the state of my shirt.

 Jan holds his rifle with a careful ease, pointed away from me, and we stepped around puddles. “We’d heard that someone was holed up in the Ruther’s place from another survivor passing by, said he saw the lights but couldn’t stop for the night.” He explained to me. The buildings loomed over us, dark and gray, even more depressing with the graffiti tagged on them and the trash and bullet casings littering the streets, or a mauled body.

 I caught on quick. “Who are ‘we’?”

 “No name yet… About fifty survivors. We’re holed up in the mall close by; we’ve got it closed off.” He turned his gaze on me; despite the dirt on his face, I think I saw a small smile. “Who are ‘you’?”

 “Allison.” I don’t bother with my last name. It’s Craig, for future reference.

 We walked in silence after that.  I didn’t offer any more information after that to him. I’m twenty-one, and I was at school in Malton, living here on my own. That’s the only thing I have to thank God for, aside from my life: My family is miles and miles away from this mess. I was going to be a doctor, make lots of money, maybe get married to my boyfriend the wannabe neurosurgeon, have a nice little family in Malton.

 Well, that was before my boyfriend the wannabe neurosurgeon tried to do surgery before he finished school and maybe have a little brain sammich on the side. The lucky volunteer? Yours truly, of course. I’m still kicking, obviously, thanks to the VERY convenient location of having the door to my apartment located in the kitchen where we keep the Cutco knives. I saw him once after that, munching on an intern I knew only vaguely. They just don’t stay down.

 The mall was in sight when he spoke again; I thought that I could hear a strange sound coming from the mall, like the constant murmur of voices. The streets were dry thanks to a cleverly unblocked drainage system, and we avoided a small group of three zombies, but the house I was in was close to the mall. “How long were you in there?” He questioned.

 “Five days. I would’ve stayed longer, but there was no food.”

 “No one tried to get you?”

 I hesitated. Was that a good time to tell him about the ‘horde’ I’d experienced? It’d only been ten zombies, truthfully, but it seems like more when they’re clawing at the doors and windows, attracted by the light that I couldn’t bring myself to turn off. They’d left after two days, probably off to greener pastures. And then there’d come the infected boy, perhaps eight years old… He’d pounded on the door, begged to be let in, crying, screaming about how it was like he was on fire and how he was so afraid, and I listened as his cries faded when he left the street. When I peeked out the window, cautiously, there was a zombie shuffling after him.

 Maybe it wasn’t the best time. “No. I was quiet.” I replied after maybe too long of a pause.

 “Right…” He looked off, distracted. “We can’t go in the front doors. There’s some kind of… You could say an attack.” Jan had struggled to find the right word for a moment; when we were in the mall he corrected himself to call it a ‘siege’. Obviously a word he hadn’t been familiar with. “We’ll go in through the building next to it.”

 “They’re connected?” I asked, confused, and he took the time to pause and fix me with a curious stare.

 “How have you lived this long?” I just shrugged at his incredulity and looked away at a nearby building decorated with some rather rude artwork to ignore his gaze, a little offended but not bothering to show it. He’d played the man and saved my ass, so he deserved some credit, I suppose, but I don’t need my self confidence lowered anymore. Okay, so my survivor skills aren’t as polished. Excuse me, princess.

 We carefully avoided the extended parking lot of the mall, and there I saw what was the source of that peculiar sound I’d heard earlier. It was a mob of zombies. I don’t know how many there were; but they milled around listlessly, the thick glass doors of the mall attracting them, but seemingly unsure what to do.

 “What are they doing?” I whispered the question, even though we were much too far away to be heard by the zombies. Still, I was keeping an alert eye around us. They are seriously everywhere. You can’t even go to the bathroom nowadays without worrying about someone bothering your peaceful, tranquil state of waste removal, let alone walk down the streets. The zombies had obviously converged here, which explained why we’d been so unbothered on the walk here.

 “Waiting.” Jan didn’t explain more, despite the fact that I must’ve looked like someone had hit me over the head with a pan as the implication of that sunk in. Waiting for what? He led me to the next building, and we had to awkwardly climb into the window of the nondescript office building and then a couple of chairs. Inside, the place was surprisingly empty, dirty papers littering the tiled floors. Any furniture had been taken to be used as further deterrents to the undead masses, and as soon as we got in, he shoved another chair in front of the window.

 The building is dark. He told me that there was a genny (short for generator), but nobody bothered to keep it refilled, since the mall is the main point. He told me that the zeds (short for zombie; I’m out of the loop, although it seems stupid to abbreviate the word ‘zombie’.) had started collecting three days ago, and that they’d been rounding up survivors ever since. It seems like the rule here is “The More The Merrier!”, although it’s generally unspoken.

 We went up four flights of stairs in the office building. There was a forbidding blood stain on the second landing, but Jan didn’t even seem to notice it. , while I stepped carefully around it. Then we went to another window, this one slightly larger, the metal that held broken glass panes thrown wide open. “I hope you aren’t afraid of the heights.” He told me. “Ladies first.”

 He motioned forward, and I glanced out the window. There was a bridge between the window and the roof of the mall, and I looked back at him, trying to communicate the ‘GOD NO’ that was running through my mind at that moment. It was a safety thing. After all, the ‘bridge’ is just two unsteady looking planks of wood, and let’s be honest, my balance isn’t that good. But he just touched my shoulder lightly, which I guess was meant to be some kind of reassurance, but I took a deep breath. I’d survived zombies… A bridge was nothing.

 Surprisingly, it wasn’t anything to be afraid of. All I had to do was shoulder my backpack and suck it up and not look down. The distance between the office and the mall was barely the space of a small alleyway, and I stuck out my arms for balance and very carefully took baby steps. I can proudly say I didn’t crawl over that damned contraption, but my heart was thudding out a nervous rhythm in my chest the entire time.

 Jan, on the other hand, walked confidently behind me, taking half the time I had, seemingly unscathed by the experience. “You’ll get used to it.” He assured me as he passed me, but I just glared at the back of his head and followed. I know. For being taken in, I was being unnaturally sulky. I suppose it was the hunger catching up to me… I get grumpy when I’m hungry.

 We were on the roof of the mall, and here there were more bloodstains, but again, no bodies. There was a stairwell on the roof, but before we descended, I glanced over the edge of the building to see the zombies… Zeds, I mean, milling around on the ground before, that same aimless feeling as before perforating their group. Even here, I could smell it: Rot. The stench of decay that never left the air, and Febreeze wasn’t going to ever cut it. Malton’s a big place; the (un)dead and dead alike have piled up. The animals have all but disappeared.

 And the survivors hole up in malls. When we got down to the food court, which was the main base of operations, there were a surprising number of people. Jan had told me fifty some; I estimate more like seventy or eighty. The roof we’d gone on was just the edge of the structure, as a huge glass dome dominated the rest of the roof. It’s a two story mall, as these things usually are, plants that are now wilting scattered tastefully around. I saw a smaller group working on scrubbing the bloodstains off the floors. It seems futile to me, but…

 Immediately, Jan took me to a man smaller than the both of us, but the dangerous look in his eye told me that he definitely should not be screwed with. “Who’s this? The Ruther’s place?” He questioned Jan in a rough voice, who nodded before beginning to speak.

 “There’s few zombies on the streets; both the police and fire departments are ruined. The Hill Defense Team is gone.” He told the short man, whose shoulders seemed to sag a bit at the news. He had a thick moustache covering a short upper lip, and military short hair. I could see bulging muscles underneath his shirt, and his heavy duty grade black boots were laced tight.

 I could imagine a zombie’s skull cracking underneath those boots, the blood coming out with a sickening squealch. Not a pretty picture.

 “Unfortunate.” He said gruffly, after a moment. “We’re going to need help if those zed numbers keep multiplying.” He looked over the food court from our spot near the only elevator in the mall. It had been made into a makeshift infirmary, and although the people here were largely silent in their work, I could hear a pained moan or the sound of quiet sobbing frequently. People in bloodstained clothes moved among the survivors, latex gloves snapped over their hands.

 Finally his gaze shifted to me. “Last and first name? Occupation?” He asked me crisply.

 “Craig, Allison.” I said, worried at how thin my voice sounded compared to his boom. “I was studying to be a doctor.” A grim smile stretched the corners of his mouth.

 “Welp, welcome. I’m the Sergeant. Get started, Craig. Jan, show her a place, then I need you to go back out to Warehouse 21 with Hawkley.” Again, that far off look in his eyes. Despite his rough and tough appearance, the Sergeant (? I don’t know what else to call him) seems a worried and harried man. “And bring back as much as you can carry… Take the truck, but be careful.” He tacked on the last bit almost as a afterthought rather than a real sentiment. Jan nodded, and grabbed my arm loosely to pull me away.

 He showed me to an empty makeshift bed, which appears to have been vacated by an unfortunate man named Jenkins just the day before. He said that information quite seriously, but there was a little smile, so I think he might have been pulling my chain. But it’s not too important; I don’t mind sleeping in a dead man’s bed. I’m wearing a dead woman’s clothes, I eat the food that would’ve been dead people’s, and I’m living in a (un)dead Malton.

 Fuck my life... Lunch is over. Guess I'm all caught up, anyways. Update tomorrow.