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| Danny Lee is a dedicated survivor, and part of [[The Fortress]]. | | Danny Lee is a dedicated survivor, and part of [[The Fortress]]. |
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| =Journal Entry, Friday, September 12, 2008=
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| <B>Location:</B> Some dusty warehouse, North-west (?) Malton.
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| <B>Status:</B> Not sure; will settle for hungry (who the F---k isn’t in this city?).
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| I’m hungry and dinner didn’t help. All I had for dinner tonight was one can of peach and leftover tuna from yesterday. I do have a small number of canned vegetables and corned beef, but I’m planning on rationing for at least three days, seeing as this suburb seems pretty dead. To add to the agony, I’m out of SPAM. If I don’t find one soon, I’ll have to actually eat corned beef. They are disgusting.
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| Now, you might be asking yourself, “just who is this guy?” I’ll tell you. I’m Danny Lee, or at least that’s what everyone calls me. That’s a nickname, and I do have a real name (it’s not Daniel), but the people that know my real name are – hah! You probably thought I’d say, “The people that know my real name are all dead,” didn’t you? If you were thinking that, congratulations; you were fooled by a dead man, because if you’re reading this and it’s not my memoir, then I guess I F---ked up and got killed like a F---king idiot.
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| Anyways, those people that know my real name aren’t dead – they’re across the Atlantic Ocean in Canada, where they are, hopefully, safe. How’d I end up here in England though? I thought it would be fun to sign up for armed service and get shipped (or is it planed?) to England as a part of the International Peacekeeping Corps. “Civil Disorder,” I thought, “The bad bit will be over by the time I’m done Basic Training.” I thought I’d hand out bits of food, check out the sights in Malton, and police quiet streets… nothing major. Boy, was I stupid. I won’t bore you with details of my struggle to stay alive in this city, but I’ll say two words: Peacekeeping sucks.
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| Right now, I’m holed up in some dusty warehouse. Not sure what suburb I’m in exactly; I hate geography, and didn’t bother finding out. I’m alone at the moment… so I should probably keep watch than write. Whatever. Got to die sooner or later, I suppose.
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| I’m not sure why I’m writing this. I always thought diaries were for girls (a reason why this is called a journal), never enjoyed revealing my emotions to others (which is probably I’ll die a virgin), and hate presenting in front of people. This means I hate writing a <s>diary</s> journal, so again, I’m not sure why I’m starting a journal now.
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| Maybe I’m lonely. Most of my Fortress friends (maybe you’ve seen our flyers?) are dead or missing. There has been a steady stream of recruits, but I never did fit in with the new crowd the Fortress is being filled up with; they probably don’t care about me. Do they even know I exist? The point is, I’m alone, and no, I’m not scared. Screw you if you were thinking that. I may be alone in foreign territory, with no idea where I am, where the closest Fortress combat team is, but I’m definitely NOT scared.
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| Damn, I should have taken that counseling session Zuton offered a year ago. I thought I didn’t need it then… reading over this sh*tty piece of literature, I think I could use a session or two. My English teacher would have had a fit if he saw this; there is no cohesion in the entry. I’m not even sticking to one topic for even two paragraphs. I feel confused. I could really use that counseling session Zuton offered a year ago. F---k, I just repeated myself. See what I mean? Not sure if Zuton’s even alive anymore. She’s probably still kicking around in some suburb with her combat team – was in Team Battlehawk? Screw it.
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| Of course, no one can be sure that someone’s alive in this city unless they’re besides you, and even then you have troubles keeping them alive. But Zuton’s tough, so I’m not worried… kind of. I could text her but… I never got her number. My cell phone is pretty useless anyways: it’s filled with numbers of those who are dead or missing.
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| I don’t know, I just need someone decent to talk to, someone who is soothing… someone who can help me get my thought in order… someone like Zuton. What’s with this weird obsession with Zuton? I sound like a drowning man clutching at strews. If you’re thinking “man, he must be in love with her,”… you’re disgusting. She must be, like, ten years older than I am. I don’t have a weird fetish for <s>really old</s> older women. It’s just that Zuton’s the only person I can think of right now who is my standard of “goodness.” I use people I know as standards for a person’s character, but I don’t like using dead people as my standard; most people that I know who are like Zuton are dead. Jesus, I GOT to make new friends.
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| Read over this again, and even I’m confused about what I’m writing. Maybe that’s what I am right now: confusion. Maybe I’m writing this to get my head in order, and maybe calm myself down a little. I’m a little nervous right now, being alone in the dark… but I’m not scared. I’m not scared of anything.
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| Well, the paragraph above was supposed to be my “profound self assessment” paragraph, but I F---ked up that one. Screw it. I’m tired and I need to sleep, so I’ll just write a to-do list for the next few days.
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| :1. Find out where the F---k I am.
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| :2. Find cans of SPAM.
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| :3. Find ammo and spare parts for the shotgun.
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| :4. Ask around for any news regarding the Fortress, Zuton’s Battle Team in particular (was it Battlehawk?).
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| :5. Find a good book to read (Lord of the Rings, perhaps?).
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| :6. Stay Alive.
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| =Journal Entry, Monday, September 15, 2008=
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| <b>Location:</b> The same dusty warehouse, Richmond Hills.
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| <b>Status:</b> Desperate.
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| I talked to some survivor two days ago who was cleaning out a corner store. I asked him to share some of the loot in the store, but he refused by pointing a shotgun at me. Bastard. Apparently, the Canadian Forces outfit (no matter how tattered) still counts for some authority, because the bastard told me that I’m in Richmond Hills. Hooray. That solves all my problems.
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| I’m out of food, and that’s including corned beef, which doesn’t count as food at all. I looked around, yes, but only in small corner stores as going into the large grocery store three blocks west alone in too dangerous. All the stores are cleaned out… canned foods were gone, and the chips, dried veggies, and jerky were gone too. I did find a 6-pack of Pepsi, which became my breakfast and lunch today.
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| Thinking back, I think I should have eaten everything on Friday instead of rationing. At least then, I would have felt full for at least one day; by rationing, I made myself feel hungry all the way through. I’m getting desperate… my fingers look tasty. I’m going to tackle that grocery store tomorrow… no matter how dangerous it is. I might as well die in combat than starving to death. At least it’ll be quicker that way.
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| Now, if I wasn’t alone, I wouldn’t be in this f---king problem. I wish I had someone to cover my back… I miss my combat team. We would have cleared out that store in less than ten minutes. But they’re all dead, or missing… I don’t know where half of them ended up at. I could always rejoin a team I suppose, but I tried that before and it didn’t work. I just can’t seem to fit in. And playing solo does mean I don’t have to listen to anyone. But f-- -k, it does get lonely when you’re out here…
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| God… I’m too f---king hungry to keep writing. I don’t feel anything when I sleep, so I guess I might as well take a nap… I’m kind of hoping that I don’t wake up.
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