Journal:Raston Wolfe

The journal seems to have been abandoned, and the once handsome black leather cover is scuffed and slashed in multiple places. The cover is blank, but there is text on the inside front cover: Property of Raston and Richard Wolfe. The first page is completely blank, but the ones after that are filled with loose, light handwriting that tilts to the right. It's written in pen, and smeared in places but it is still legible.

A Written Account of Surviving Malton's Zombie War

Year One

February 2, 2009

This is the first time in several years that I have been outside that cursed facility. I had been transported here from the United States at the beginning of the outbreak by a specific request, or maybe it was an offering of sorts from one military to the other. I arrived in England sedated and in a straitjacket. I can't remember any of the flight or the ride to the base.

They used me in the first months of the outbreak, when the military was still trying to contain it. They trained me as a scout, and taught me parkour. At first I had no idea what they were sending me out for, but it was perfectly clear the first time they unlocked my handcuffs. A soldier had me at gunpoint and the sergeant just pointed down from our building to what looked like a group of ten people coming towards us. I laughed at first, but even I had to stop when I realized that slowly, surely, they were cornering a civilian, and then right before my eyes they began to feast on the injured person's flesh.

I'm more of a blood person myself but... That was sufficient enough to get me on the job.

So the military sent me out to hunt Zack and the infected. I hunted for a couple of weeks before they began realizing that their carefully organized efforts and my unenthusiastic help wasn't making a dent in the rising dead. So they scrapped it. Put the entire damn county under quarantine with us still in it. This was about the time of the first panic. Some civilian or private got a hold of a radio and started broadcasting the news that the military was closing everything off. Barricades crumbled as hundreds of people desperately ran for the edges of the city and the suburbs, either to be shot down by the military or to be sandwiched between the guns and Zack. Poor bastards, I almost felt sorry for them.

Hah, almost. I got most of my supplies, and while the population was heading out, I was going in. However, because of my long incarceration back at the states, I need to relearn so many things, how to live, how to shoot correctly... My medication is running out as well, and I don't dare go back to any of the forts. I've managed to scrounge a cell-phone, a radio that's set to 26.06 and a first aid kit as well as keeping my flare and binoculars. I've been stuck in Santlerville for a while now, but I sort of like it here, I figure it's worth staying until I can learn enough to keep alive. So many things have changed about cities since I was thirteen, and being in the middle of a zombie apocalypse takes a little bit of getting used to as well.

I suppose if anyone finds this, they should know some about me.

My name is Raston Wolfe, and I am currently 23 years old. I'm about 5' 9" and I have longish blond hair and dark blue eyes. I generally wear a long lab-coat that I found on a dead techie and I am a hunter. Human or zombie, it makes no difference to me as long as there's entertainment involved. I am originally from the United States and I am currently under the employ of the former Malton quarantine force. I do not have a passport or any other identification, but my face would pop up rather quickly if you did a police scan via interpol or something. I'm unofficially known as the child serial-killer of Sacramento. But the past is the past, and this place looks promising. Almost... entertaining.

February 4, 2009

I have wandered farther from Santlerville than I intended to. I've managed to find a fire axe, but it isn't doing me much good. I really need to get back home where I know the turf so I can find a place to sleep tonight. I'm down to my last bottle of meds and the constant blood is dizzying and ugh.

I can't sit still, every shadow looks like it's another zed or another person. God, it feels like we're thirteen again and being hunted across the city as we're hunting our prey. It's nerve wracking and downright insane. I can't stand it, can't stand it, can't stand it. I have to get back to my safehouse. Have to get back to my suburb.

I'm so tired, so very tired...

February 5, 2009

There is nothing but a rather large smear of blood for this day. If you look closer there is scratchy and dark handwriting at the bottom of the page:

Ahahaha so much bloood Raston where are you I cant hear you Raston RASTON

February 7, 2009

I woke up this morning with a blinding headache and a bad taste in my mouth. There were two other zombies around me, and I was in Gibsonton of all places. Flipping back through my journal, the only thing I can see written is on the fifth. It's not my handwriting. Mine tilts to the right, this one tilts to the left. Could it be?..

Let me just take my medication and be on with this. I've made it back to Santlerville, and I've taken shelter for the night in an auto shop. Thank god for the army teaching me free-running, probably the only useful thing anyone's been able to teach me. I have plenty of medication now. I've raided a hospital and I found the pills that I needed. I've also got a cell-phone. Hah. Not that I'll be calling or texting anytime soon. I just barely figured out how to work the thing.

I wonder if that really was Richard. My joints ache like hell, and I found a syringe on me earlier. "Necrotech?" The hell is that? I hope nothing too bad happened while I was out. But I have a bad feeling about it...

February 10, 2009

I really can't take it anymore. I managed to find some gear today, nothing special though: just a shotgun, a couple of shells and a pistol. I have several first aid kits, but no-one needs them. I'm standing on the top of the Self Hotel and wondering if life is worth living anymore.

Zombies, zombies and more damn zombies. It's fucking crazy for one, and on another note, my medication has run out and I can't find anymore. Richard is scraping away at the inside of my psyche and I can't keep him out. He wants to kill and kill and kill and kill everyone. He wants to begin hunting again, and I won't let him. No! I won't let him!

All it would take is one step. One calm step off the edge of the building, and it will all end soon enough. Ha ha ha. Soon enough.

Nothing more is written for this page but a sketchy looking drawing on the bottom. It sort of looks like a person with a wide smile and wielding a knife. The paper is blotted dark red and brown from the blood that seeped into it.