Journal:Samuel Armitage
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This journal belongs to Sgt. Samuel Armitage, Malton PD. If found, please return to your local precinct.
Septemper 30th
I woke up in a hospital a week ago. I'm fairly sure it used to be a long-term coma ward--it didn't have enough machinery and such for ICU, and too much for a normal patient room. It's hard to be sure, however, because there didn't seem to be anybody else there save for more coma patients and corpses. I had no memory of how I got there; the first thing I noticed was that I was tearingly hungry. Presumably the empty IV bag still plugged into my arm had been feeding me until now. I stumblingly pulled on clothes and a gunbelt sitting in a storage locker next to my bed, ripped the IV out and went to find something to eat; my mind didn't seem to be working quite right, and my memories are rather hazy. I eventually wandered out into the street, ate...something, and slept.
When I woke up, I was dead.
I didn't know what the hell was going on then--I awoke and I could barely think. What I've written here is half memory and half conjecture; the lack of any oxygen in one's brain doesn't exactly aid the creation of memories. I tried to move and my limbs were...strange, when they responded at all. Soon I smelled domething--I didn't know what it was, but it was delicious. Alluring. I followed it and came upon a survivor, who seemed to have collapsed in exhaustion in the street. I've tried to forgive myself for what happened there. I couldn't have held myself back; the virus is stronger than anyone's will. I know that now. Even though I lost my strength and became unable to move before I could truly deal any damage to the man, even though the small horde that came through later would have slain him whether I'd weakened him first or not...I can't seem to escape the guilt. Perhaps in time. In any case, I woke up again, knocked to the ground and with fresh tears in my rotting flesh. I got up once again and once again took a few bites out of someone before I fell unconscious and fell to hunters. Thank God I didn't truly kill anyone during those five days...
Eventually, I found a street with something written on the wall. I read it now as "get revived here;" then, the one word "revivification" sparked something in the decaying pathways of my brain. I slumped against the wall and drifted away. When next I woke up, I felt a buzzing in my ears and realized I could think again. I walked through the desolate city, spending the few rounds in my pistol all too quickly fending off the forces of the horde, and eventually found my way to a police station. This hadn't been my precinct before the car crash, or biking accident, or illness, whatever put my in my coma, but it was still familiar. Home. I slipped in past the desks and bars that had been placed over the door and was greeted with a collection of muzzles from the inhabitants; I explained my situation, or what I knew of it. That was yesterday. I've been told the facts of life in today's Malton; some of the officers here and still convinced I'm a "Renfield," and I'm being kept in a cell for a few days as a precaution. There's a doctor here who belongs to NecroTech, and he says what happened to me was very interesting. His theory is that the virus was what repaired parts of my body enough to break out of my coma in the first place, thus leaving me in a sort of half-zombie state. Apparently if I could remember which hospital I woke up in, the information would be very valuable; other coma patients may still be half-zombie, and NecroTech could find out a lot of useful information from them. Unforunatly, my complete undeath and later revivification have apparently erased any traces of the condition in myself. One of the survivors here used to be a psychologist, and told me I should write down what I've seen--and done--as a way to cope with the guilt, and also to record the happenings here in Malton, which brings us...here. Someone is passing out more of the rations the Army is delivering to registered safehouses; I'll write more later.
October 3rd
Life in a zombie-infested town isn't as dismal as it seems. The others finally seem to trust that I won't go and gather the horde here, and we've been doing a lot of good; I found a shotgun and some shells, and learned how to use them...but fighting the undead doesn't really work. They're undead, and thus unkillable. All we can do is hold them back and keep them down, but every time we lose an ally they gain one. If it weren't for NecroTech there'd be no future in it at all. As it is, the Army delivery guy says the government has some hope of eventually eradicating the zombie presence, though the quarantine will probably never be lifted. I've been finding more souvenirs of my zombie state every day; huge scars in odd places, broken teeth...occasionally I cough up pieces of bone. I'm trying to keep my cool, but that's not exactly easy when you've been dead. I've got to stock up on ammo and leave for another patrol soon. Wish me luck.
October 14th
This page has tooth marks around the edges, and is marked with smears of something brown and crusty; parts of them seem to form letters, but almost nothing is discernable. The only recognizable word in it is "life," large and in the middle of the page.
