Zombie Story Reborn
March 18th, 2007
Nearly a year has passed since my last journal entry. The zombie herds have consumed the vast majority of the population, converting them like Mormons, against thier will. Our whole group has survived, save Sarrah and Ellen. Thier loss was tragic, but our minds conquered our hearts and our will to survive outweighed our love for them. Josie ended up joining a band of hippies and drove off into the sunset with her weed in tow. We have not heard from her since.
We are tired, weak, and sick of killing the already dead creatures that crave us, but we have all transformed into machines of war. We eat, breathe, and sleep war. Our weapons have become like limbs to us; nothing is more necessary. When this is all over, there may be hope of losing those limbs and continuing a normal life, but our optimistic attitudes are fleeting. We live each moment to survive, because in the end we fear not death, but the possibility of becoming one of them. We fear losing control of ourselves and losing our free will. We fear being forever trapped in a prison which we cannot escape, and losing everything we have ever learned just because of a virus...a disease. I believe we are all in agreement that we would sooner lose our lives than become a flesh eating sillouette of a man.
I am no longer sure where we are. Too much of our former world has been destroyed. What I do know is this: I am writing my journal on the obituaries of a year-old newpaper and every single person's name I cover with my chicken-scratch was one lucky son of a bitch for not having encountered what we have. We are currently bunked in a grocery store in hopes of gaining some non-perishable food. Sadly, we have not gained any more people in our group as of yet. All those we have come in contact with had a seperate agenda. In the morning we will hop in the Jeep and travel for a few hours trying to find more survivors.
I stop writing...
...I light up a cigarette. These things aren't so bad after tasting death.
Scanning out the window I see no movement. I lay my M4 Carbine across my chest and lay back against the counter. Being lookout sucks.
Everyone else is sleeping on the floor of the store, peacefully dreaming about not being here. I wish I could join them.
[Please continue at random. Make the stories work. And read the beginning of the Zombie Stories in my blogs here or on LiveJournal. My suggestion is to start your own story and let it lead to meeting up with us if you wish. Warning: If your story is too outrageous, makes no sense, or you are trying to just fuck ours up we will simply kill you off or discard it.]
Nearly a year has passed since my last journal entry. The zombie herds have consumed the vast majority of the population, converting them like Mormons, against thier will. Our whole group has survived, save Sarrah and Ellen. Thier loss was tragic, but our minds conquered our hearts and our will to survive outweighed our love for them. Josie ended up joining a band of hippies and drove off into the sunset with her weed in tow. We have not heard from her since.
We are tired, weak, and sick of killing the already dead creatures that crave us, but we have all transformed into machines of war. We eat, breathe, and sleep war. Our weapons have become like limbs to us; nothing is more necessary. When this is all over, there may be hope of losing those limbs and continuing a normal life, but our optimistic attitudes are fleeting. We live each moment to survive, because in the end we fear not death, but the possibility of becoming one of them. We fear losing control of ourselves and losing our free will. We fear being forever trapped in a prison which we cannot escape, and losing everything we have ever learned just because of a virus...a disease. I believe we are all in agreement that we would sooner lose our lives than become a flesh eating sillouette of a man.
I am no longer sure where we are. Too much of our former world has been destroyed. What I do know is this: I am writing my journal on the obituaries of a year-old newpaper and every single person's name I cover with my chicken-scratch was one lucky son of a bitch for not having encountered what we have. We are currently bunked in a grocery store in hopes of gaining some non-perishable food. Sadly, we have not gained any more people in our group as of yet. All those we have come in contact with had a seperate agenda. In the morning we will hop in the Jeep and travel for a few hours trying to find more survivors.
I stop writing...
...I light up a cigarette. These things aren't so bad after tasting death.
Scanning out the window I see no movement. I lay my M4 Carbine across my chest and lay back against the counter. Being lookout sucks.
Everyone else is sleeping on the floor of the store, peacefully dreaming about not being here. I wish I could join them.
[Please continue at random. Make the stories work. And read the beginning of the Zombie Stories in my blogs here or on LiveJournal. My suggestion is to start your own story and let it lead to meeting up with us if you wish. Warning: If your story is too outrageous, makes no sense, or you are trying to just fuck ours up we will simply kill you off or discard it.]