Journal:Nirovan/Archive
Archive
21 March
There are the remains of a number of ripped-out pages between this page and the last one. A '14' is in the top-right.
I have returned to Dunell Hills, following a slow but steady trickle of zombies.
~Vorschtatz
28 February
A '13' is in the top-left. The entry is scrawled.
Don't have much time to write. Found a cell phone; have been making regular trips outside Pagram to do what I can in way of hurting the horde, in and out of Pagram, returning to NWC after each trip. They hurt like a bitch. Have improved my shooting. Details later.
~Vorschtatz
20 February
The number '12' is in the top-right. The page is remarkably free from any other markings. The entry is titled 'Strange Encounters'. (I'm experimenting some with the character and a slightly repetitive speech style. It'll be a bit while I work it out.)
Enjoying myself here in Caiger, surprisingly. Have met some very, very odd folks in the northwestern corner. Odd. Apparently they refuse to be in the dismal mood that everyone else is in and instead have elected a King and have accumulated various things from the mall, including Christmas lights and a root beer fountain, of all things. There is also a zombie head with a dead fish inside and a person that quacks all the time... I think he's insane, I'm not sure. Probably. Also, a couple Germans put on quite a show a few days ago, looking for waffles -- apparently somebody had spraypainted an advertisement for waffles on the wall. Hm, waffles. Anyway, this corner is pretty much isolated from the action -- perhaps that's what explains the mood -- but I travel around the mall giving assistance to whoever needs it before returning here. It's working as my base of operations, in other words, yes.
I have to say, I've been having a... really fun time. It's been a while since I've even heard the word "fun"!
~Vorschtatz
14 February
The number '11' is in the top-left. Dark specks remain from where the journal had fallen in grime and was wiped clean.
My services are becoming needed less and less in Dunell Hills. No zombies, no nutjobs, no wounds. While this is good, my abilities are being wasted here for the moment. Beginning the trek to Caiger, maybe I'll be of more use there. Will return to Dunell Hills soon.
~Vorschtatz
11 February
A '10' is in the top-right. This page is pretty unremarkable. I would add an "other than that" before that but a '10' isn't very remarkable either. ;)
Heard a commotion from the survivors manning the barricades earlier, the kind of commotion you hear when another survivor enters. Introductions, story swapping, and the like. This one entered with more "not sure" and "can't tell you"s than most other survivors, though.
Stepped out from the operating room I was in to see who in the world this clueless person could be. Turns out Eri finally showed up! I ushered the confused soul over and he helped me scrounge for supplies while we had a little chat for an hour or so. He literally doesn't remember anything before a few weeks ago when he woke up in an office. I filled in what I could with the limited time available to us, before I went to check on the survivors in Catherine General next door and then hopped over to the club for more of a low-profile place to sleep. With any luck, we'll run into each other some more. It'd be nice to have someone to talk to that doesn't have a drained, hard look in his eyes.
~Vorschtatz
10 February
The number '9' is in the top-left. The page looks as though it has been soaked and written on after it dried. It reeks of medicinal alcohol.
Another survivor and I were sitting next to the window near the barricades. A horrific-looking man stumbled up to the window and collapsed on the sill. Bite marks covered the surface of his body, and what remained of his clothes were in tatters. His wounds were swelling red with infection. He was lucky to be alive -- he had literally taken all the abuse a body could take. I hadn't seen a man in that condition manage to move, let alone drag himself to the hospital.
We hauled him into the window and set him on the floor. Six hours later, he was sewn up and stabilized. He will be covered in scars. Normally, his situation would require months of physical therapy. We don't have the resources to help him. I'm sure, though, that if he can make it to a hospital in that condition, he can manage to restore his range of movement. Later, after he regained consciousness, he described how he had moved directly from building to building and wound up exhausted inside a building with a half-dozen zombies. Moving like that wasn't something that had occurred to me, yet. I'll have to see if I can find ways to avoid going out to the street...
I'm constantly patching people up, but this is a medical achievement I can be proud of, especially with my limited resources and experience. He should eventually see a full recovery.
I'm glad that the mess with my FAKs came after that-- earlier today, some shithead wasn't watching where he was going and kicked over my supplies. Alcohol all over the journal, luckily it's not too bad -- I managed to save it rather quickly. I'm down to two first aid kits. After a little talk, Numbskull now realizes that one or more of my kits might be meant for him someday. With a little force, he also quite rationally came to the conclusion that he wouldn't want to die just because some other careless, ham-handed, unthinking scrap-for-brains took out my kits, indirectly killing who knows how many people.
Haven't heard from Eri lately. Hope he's doing alright, and didn't have some sort of amnesiac relapse, or something.
~Vorschtatz
9 February
There is a crossed '8' in the top-right. The page is miraculously clean. The page is drenched through from the other side. The entry is a bit runny, but it has been traced over after the page dried.
Still alive. No recent entries, routine runs between hospital to stock up on FAKs and back to the PD to treat survivors. Zed activity continues to slowly heat up. Generally, all quiet.
~Vorschtatz
(OOC note: Quite literally, nothing interesting has happened lately :/)
4 February
A '7' is scrawled in the top-left. A shoeprint takes up the center of the page.
A zombie has been barricaded inside with us. A quick glance around showed numerous critically wounded survivors. I trekked back to Stephen General, scrounged enough supplies for five medkits, and stabilized two patients, one from critical condition.
Other than that, it has been an uneventful, surprisingly relaxing day. The variety of injuries I have treated since regaining consciousness has made me more adept at assessing the conditions of others quickly, and I now waste nearly no time in my diagnosis.
~Vorschtatz
3 February
Event Log
This following is an event log, as the character would not have been able to write of the happenings.
Loud crashing awakened Nirovan from his seat against the inside of the door to room 130. "Fucking... not again!" he muttered as he hurriedly stood up, still swaying on his feet from exhaustion. The moans of the undead reached his ears through the closed door, mixed with the scrapes of furniture sliding across the floor of the hallway as the zombies trudged through the wreckage that was the barricade to Stephen General Hospital.
The moans of the zombie infiltrators approached his door. Nirovan's breathing became shallow and quiet as he listened to their shuffling footsteps approach. The doorknob turned rapidly and the door was shoved open a precious six inches before he managed to put his weight against it, shoving it closed.
The sounds of rending flesh and limbs being severed came from the other side of the door, accompanied by a bloodcurdling scream that echoed through the empty cooridors, the horror of it contrasting with the brightness shed by the generator-powered flourescent lights. Blood crept under the crack at the bottom of the door, pooling in a crimson mass around his shoes. The quiet sounds of... feeding... brought tears of regret to Nirovan's eyes as he stood against the door, unarmed. How long they continued, he could not tell, but after an indeterminate period of time hearing only the buzzing of electricity, he pulled his feet out of the now-congealed puddle and crept toward the window, leaving rust-colored footprints. Shaking with adrenaline and exhaustion, he clambered out the window and made a break for the Yea Drive police station, as fast as his numbed legs would carry him, sending a weak radio report to the DHPD en route.
He clambered in over the barricades, nearly dead with exhaustion, made it six steps into the lobby, and fell forward, unconscious but alive.
Entry
A '6' is in the top-right, ragged as if the author's hand was shaking severely. The whole entry shares that characteristic, and takes some effort to decypher.
I awakened to find myself (here there are a few nonsensical lines, as if the author repeatedly started a word and stopped) unarmed and without first-aid supplies in the lobby of the Yea Drive PD. I barely remember getting here. There are many survivors here. After only four of us in the large hospital, this many in this small of a space is... hard. There was no further use for me at Stephen General at the time of my flight -- unskilled, unsupplied, and armed only with an axe, I would have only been a (here the handwriting becomes weaker) meal for the zombies. Visions of what happened outside room 130 haunt me. Perhaps my imagination of the (the space here is a bit long, indicating the writer probably paused with the pen away from the page and then later resumed writing) death that occurred there is worse than reality.
Dear God, I hope so.
I learned something of myself today... I can deal with the injuries, the deaths, the blood. I can watch an accident happen and not even flinch. With the zombies, it's different. It's horrific. I can't so easily manage the actions involved in one of those deaths - the screams, the tearing, the... pooling, the...
...feeding.
~Vorschtatz
2 February
There is a scrawled '5' in the top-left. A blood smear from the side of a palm follows the writing, starting after the first few words, a sign that the writer is right-handed. It fades after the first few sentences.
Undead, undead, undead. Infiltrations into Stephen General are getting more frequent. My fellow survivors are replacing the barricades and dumping stunned zombies outside every three hours or so. I treated Darth Sensitive for some rather nasty wounds; he took up all the supplies in my last three medpacks. I'm going to have to see what I can scrounge during the downtime.
I hear reports from those at Caiger. Things are heating up. Heard Eri via radio... he used to be my dispatcher... I'm surprised anyone I knew is left... he seems confused - doesn't know who he is, or who I am. Overheard he was in trouble earlier but another survivor showed. I told him to head this way. Hope he can make it here from East Becktown, that place is swarming.
Here's hoping this lull lasts long enough to get some sleep. We're all nearly exhausted.
~Vorschtatz
2 February - 2nd Entry
This entry is a hurried scrawl, as if the author didn't have time to commit to a proper entry. The entry is unsigned.
It didn't.
1 February
This entry is written hurriedly and in shorthand, starting about halfway down the page. The page is not numbered.
Noises in hallway, things falling. Load, echoing groan. Feed call. Crack door open; zom there, no react. Barric dn. Tried - axe/zom. Fail.
Radioed - bkup & barric, genrtr rplcmnt. Tried - rally others, no respons to shout.
w/ luck, help soon. Don't dare leave room until rinforces come.
Exhausted. Pray no ans - feedcall. Must stay alert.
Hope - live tonight.
Vz
31 January
This page smells of rubbing alcohol. There is a bloody print from an index finger in the top-left, partially obscured by a scrawled '3'.
Woke up to an Officer Down at 0820 GMT. Managed my way to Yea Drive and rendered assistance to Officer O'delaw with no incidents. Only two FAKs left. Tired. More later.
~Vorschtatz
Addendum: I have added a postscript to the 29 January entry.
31 January - 2nd Entry
The writing in this entry is almost illegible. Some letters are on top of others, and the lines have a gradual downward tilt. It's as if the author was not looking at the page while he was writing. The first few words are written over a small blood smear. The entry is written in blue ink.
Was woken up by two people in need of medical help. I used my last two FAKs and patched them up. Headed to Stephen General for resupply, it was nearest.
Overheard a radio report. Tension continues to build at Caiger Mall. It has not yet been swarmed, but there are ferals knocking on the doors. Snatched a couple FAKs from the rubble in a storage room, found a comfortable place next to the wall in room 130, and went to sleep sitting up against the door.
There's no power here, and the other few survivors are either sleeping or in their own thoughts... the silence creeps me out. I broadcast for generator fuel with my shoulder radio. I can barely see to write. It's already felt as if I'm in the middle of a horror movie, and the near-total darkness in here isn't helping.
If I could find some running water before I write next time, I could stop painting entries with other people's blood. At least I'm used to it. I doubt the smell will ever come out of my journal though.
Lost my pen. Managed to find another at the information desk.
~Vorschtatz
30 January
The handwritten '2' in the top-right is obscured by a bloody thumbprint, demonstrating the circumstances under which this page was turned.
Set out today to find some form of defense; I made surprising progress. Managed a flak jacket and shotgun a police station a few blocks down. Further searching in the fire station next door rewarded me with an axe.
Took sanctuary in another hospital tonight. Sent a short broadcast to the DHPD, a local resistance group, offering my services.
I haven't found anyone in need of medical help yet, but that bodes well for my fellows. Either that or death comes even quicker in this town, now.
I spent too much of my energy searching. Must rest.
~Vorschtatz
29 January
There is a handwritten '1' in the top-left corner. This entry is written in black ink, on the left-hand page.
I awoke on the roof in the back of my ambulance. It had been overturned, to my surprise. I have no memory of how it came to be this way, or how the devastation in the nearby area happened. I could only suppose, at the time, that it had something to do with the quarantine that had been enforced on us. I was soon to find out the horrific details.
In light of the armageddon-like conditions outside, I scrounged materials for a couple first-aid kits from the ambulance and forced the rear doors open. Looking around, the devastation was much more complete than I originally thought.
Working my way down the streets to a hospital in the distance, I saw what I could only describe as walking dead. There is no spark of life in the eyes of these creatures that look to have once been human, and they most defininately have violent tendencies. Unarmed, I fled.
I arrived at the hospital, working my way through the strongly barricaded doors. There, I found out that undead have become common, and survivors are holed up in places like these throughout the region, as the zombies convert those that are left to their ranks. I hear word that those holed up in Caiger Mall have successfully routed the undead once before.
All I know is, they won't get me.
~Vorschtatz
Addendum: 31 Jan: I realized I started numbering on the "wrong" page. Hopefully if somebody reads this, they won't condemn me for it. Hah. I have better things to worry about than some scholarly jerk's opinions. Like staying alive.
