A Diary of Extreme Violence

This story is part of the Malton Chronicles. This story is fan-made, and is not officially part of any background history for Urban Dead.

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MacLane brushed her clothes down, sweeping off the debirs of a dusty floor. She'd been crawling on her belly through the rows of seats at Jouxson. It wasn't just dust she'd crawled through, there was a veritable cocktail of nastyness - old popcorn, leftover M and M's, rat shit and dead bugs. All of which littered the floor of the screen room.

Jouxson had been abandoned for months until a band of survivors headed by Detective Clarke had stumbled upon it looking for shelter and somewhere to hide out the zombie storm. The group consisted of five police officers all connected either by blood or friendship.

MacLane got to her feet and surveyed the cinema. She was in screen 1, it was pitch black apart from what light entered the room from the lobby. She ducked behind some chairs as a shadow filled the doorway. The person was wearing something metallic as the light reflected off it and on to her face. A glimmer of light cast itself across her eye and who ever it was in the door way saw her. She tried to hide, crushing her body into a tiny corner. The shadow advanced towards her slowly. It peered over the back of a chair and saw her crouched in the corner.

"Fine... you got me." She stood up bringing the game of hide and seek to an end. Clarke smiled to himself, everytime they played he'd found her somewhere in screen 1. MacLane was a little afraid of the rest of the building and wouldn't venture anywhere further back. The generator room was a no go area for MacLane the looming mechanical contraptions reminded her of a horror movie.

It was 3pm on a cold and distinctly stormy September afternoon and amongst the howling wind and the rain slapping heavily on the the cinema a loud booming knock on a firedoor reverberated round the building. Clarke opened the door on a pair of military men wearing fatigues. One with a scraggly brown beard and shaggy hair, the other, freshly shaven and sporting a mousey coloured mullet. They bustled in looking for somewhere to spend the night and Clarke led them through to the lobby. The men were heavily armed and carrying large rucksacks filled with provisions. They rolled out sleeping bags and collapsed onto them, regailling the other survivors with the story of how they escaped near certain death.

MacLane was uneasy, the men made her uncomfortable and their story made little sense and was filled with inconsistencies. As they slept MacLane crept through the darkness of the movie theatre. She eased open the strings of the mulleted man's rucksack and delved in. There was very little other than canned food, except for a small leather-bound book. She opened the book and found it was a diary.

7th February, 2 dead. Severely beaten, broken bones, fractured skull. 1 male seventeen individual stab wounds. 150 points.

8th February, 1 dead. Shot in face. 50 points.

24th April, 1 dead. Broken bones, hung - neck broke. 100 points.

The perverted score system continued through dates in the diary. No names were recorded, those murdered were just labelled as dead. MacLane flicked through the diary looking for a particular date, the date on which these men supposedly escaped a zombie death. It was blank. She closed the bag, pocketing the diary. As she began to slide away she felt a finger and thumb grip her wrist. The grip was tight and painful, soon an entire hand was grabbing her arm and squeezing. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"