User:Merrin P

From the journal of Merrin Pagarast-

I remember the early days of the break out. Mass panic, hysteria, riots...God knows why, but all I saw was the excitement. Was it a chance to test my mettle? Prove my work to the society that was breaking down moment by moment? Maybe it was my subconscious finding an excuse to appease an early mid-life crisis and seek adventure. I honestly can't tell, and I'd rather not think about it now. A decade and a half of medical experience and just as long paying back the student loans and it all goes to hell. But the excitement. God, the excitement! I didn't know anyone in this city, even after two years of internship at West Becktown's St. Lazar. So when someone mentioned a group of wandering doctors, running from shelter to shelter and helping out survivors while the undead looks to tear into our flesh, how could an overeager idiot like me say no? It was my chance to go out and change the world, after all. How foolish of me to think that it wouldn't change me back.

In a few short months, the harsh reality of it all shattered any illusions I had of my current situation. I was scared. Hungry. I huddled together with survivors, at times smelling of our own filth, as we did our best to keep each other warm in those cold nights as we heard the slow, monotonous shuffles of undead limbs dragging across the streets. There were days when I tried to keep people calm as I bandaged a gaping wound in a dark and unsterilized room as rotting hands clawed their way through hastily constructed barricades. And then...and then there were the truly darker days. It happened when the heat was finally starting to die out. I was inside a hospital, all the way at Penny Heights, going through useful equipment as the lights powered by someone's portable generator flickered on and off above me. Then I heard a scream. I ran out to see what the hubbub was about, almost tripping past some broken furniture that we were preparing as an impromptu barricade. I pushed past the crowd that had come before me- There were two men that had taken the center of everyone's attention; one was on the floor, barely conscious and likely suffering from a concussion from the assault that came from the other. The other man, if he can be called that at this point, with his long loose hair and ripped, ragged clothes, looked wild even compared to the people around him- as if he'd been hiding in the gutters for months now, completely devoid of human contact. Tightly gripped in his hands was a bat, stained with blood, some fresh, some dried long ago from the Summer humidity, which he raised over his head, preparing for another strike-

Pistol fire erupted in the hospital halls. People shrieked and ran for cover. The first shot rang past the mad man. A wild shot. The second struck him in his arm, a small flesh wound but enough to snap him out of his madness. He turned to the gunman with panic all over his face. Working only with what must have been his most basic instincts, he turned and ran towards the hospital doors, out into the dangerous pitch black of night, grunting as he shoved open the stained glass doors. A few silent seconds stretched into what felt like hours. Looking around, the crowd had began to peek from their covers, staring at the man who'd opened fire just moments ago- me.

"If I fulfill this oath and do not violate it, may it be granted to me to enjoy life and art, being honored with fame among all men for all time to come; if I transgress it and swear falsely, may the opposite of all this be my lot."

I'd found the gun just days earlier at a police station. The remnants of the local law enforcement had managed to keep the undead away from their building, yet I grew uneasy at the stares they'd often pass each other. I left soon after, armed though with no intention of ever using it, much less against another living being. It would be weeks before I fired it again. I acknowledge now that the frozen image of the man's face as he looked upon me with fear and panic would never be washed away with time. I didn't even know why he did it t all. Was it an unprovoked attack? Was he simply getting back at his aggressor? In any case, it was too late to find answers. After further thought, I realized that some expertise with firearms might be a useful skill to have at Malton. And to my shame, I found myself doing far better with it than I anticipated.

So more months went by, contact with my fellow doctors lessening as time went on. Still, I continued doing the best I can with what I had, soothing the pain of those that I was able to in their times of need. All the while the undead just kept coming, relentless and motivated by God knows what- I'd find out later on from a recently revived citizen of Malton that the undead would hold little memories of their past lives as they wandered about. It appears they're just as driven by instincts as the mad man from the hospital. Their appetites for flesh, for all we know, was just hunger driving them to find the easiest acquired meal. Their attempts to enter buildings could just be a twisted desire to look for some sort of shelter. It's hard not to dwell on it, and at the same time, I can almost forgive them for their actions. What control did they have, after all, unlike the few other survivors I'd encountered that chooses to attack other survivors and chooses to sabotage their barricades and generators? I struggle to see which one truly is the more soulless of creatures, if there's any to begin with. The idea of transcending to an afterlife after being killed by one of the ghouls is almost calming. But what then, after the use of a revivification syringe? Does the soul miraculously restore itself as the body begins to rapidly hear from their zombification? Perhaps they return as hollow shells of their former selves. Having performed and seen the process myself many times over, am I just forcing them to relive this Living Hell, never to find the true embrace of death? Wonderful. More questions to keep me up at night. But should someone find and read this journal from my corpse, I sincerely ask you of one favor- bury me. Whether the body that lays before you is one of a man having died from wounds or a zombie that's been disposed of by the living, I ask you to send me beneath the ground rather than leave me here, waiting either for the disease to resurrect me as one of them, or a good willed Samaritan that would inject me with a second chance at life that I do not wish for.

Anyway, long story short, I'd discovered that the others from the group I'd belonged to had disbanded. Even worse was that I discover this over a year after it happened. Over time I've slowly made my way northwest, going from Edgecombe to Roachtown, and eventually to where I am now as I write this- Brooke Hills. I've stopped by hospitals for quick supply refills, but I never make it more of a habit to stay longer than I have to. Not anymore. I've lost my drive, wandering aimlessly without purpose. I'll still help out anyone who I happen to pass along the way, but even that feels empty to me now. Maybe you don't need to die to lose your soul after all. At this pace, I wonder if I'll end up attacking someone without reason as well, or if I'll have the courage to take out my gun and use it on myself before that happens. Best not to think of such things. Well, next stop, Eastonwood. I figure I'll continue west and head to Darvall Heights and see where fate takes me.

	Soldiers of Crossman
	Merrin Pagarast is a proud member of the Soldiers of Crossman.