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Ignore me!
15 years ago
(To be copied into the notebook later. Part of my continual apocalypse scribblings. The laptop is just easier tonight.)
By then, someone up along the chain decided it was too dangerous to keep watching the virus unfold. A number of guards stormed into the chamber SWAT team style, emptying the clips of their rifles. The infected fell rather quickly. After a moment, one of the braver guards poked a nearby infected with the barrel of his gun. It twitched. He shouted and a booted foot slammed down on its head.
If you blinked, you would have missed the next part. The infected pounced like wild animals playing lame. Unhindered by broken bones, pain, blood loss, or anything similar to a normal reaction. Within an hour the virus had completely changed the three scientists and two guards into killing machines. They weren't anything as simple as a zombie. They were... are... so much more.
I can hear them beating on the door now. It won't hold for much longer. I don't have any useful final words... nothing you can use to fight this infection. I just figured someone deserved to know how this all started. And how noble our intentions were in the beginning.
The faded writing ends there. Other yellowed pages lay scattered around on the floor. A few are splattered with long dried blood. A soft wind shuffles them around, blowing in through a hole in the wall. Outside, the ruined city of Atlanta lay still and silent only a few miles away. A sole figure makes its way on foot down the road.
Dressed in tattered rags made of three different shirts, two pairs of pants, several tires and limping slightly on his left leg. A dirty bandage is wrapped around that knee. A heavily reinforced welder's mask blocks much of the face and head, leaving only a line across the eyes that allows for full field of vision.
He looks nervously over his shoulder. Something darts between two cars on the tattered highway. A shadow only seen at the corners of his vision. He droops wearily for a moment, as if the stress of survival had the weight of several hundred pounds. He shakes it off and reaches for the rifle strung over his back. It looks even more battle-worn than his clothes. Despite that, it looks quite futuristic. A display on the side shows the number 21 next to a single bullet.
The shadow moves again, this time bumping into a car door, which falls off the hinges with a crash. The figure jumps visibly and fires a few shots in direction of the sound.
(That's all for now. Elapsed time: 2 hours. Goodnight everyone.)
By then, someone up along the chain decided it was too dangerous to keep watching the virus unfold. A number of guards stormed into the chamber SWAT team style, emptying the clips of their rifles. The infected fell rather quickly. After a moment, one of the braver guards poked a nearby infected with the barrel of his gun. It twitched. He shouted and a booted foot slammed down on its head.
If you blinked, you would have missed the next part. The infected pounced like wild animals playing lame. Unhindered by broken bones, pain, blood loss, or anything similar to a normal reaction. Within an hour the virus had completely changed the three scientists and two guards into killing machines. They weren't anything as simple as a zombie. They were... are... so much more.
I can hear them beating on the door now. It won't hold for much longer. I don't have any useful final words... nothing you can use to fight this infection. I just figured someone deserved to know how this all started. And how noble our intentions were in the beginning.
The faded writing ends there. Other yellowed pages lay scattered around on the floor. A few are splattered with long dried blood. A soft wind shuffles them around, blowing in through a hole in the wall. Outside, the ruined city of Atlanta lay still and silent only a few miles away. A sole figure makes its way on foot down the road.
Dressed in tattered rags made of three different shirts, two pairs of pants, several tires and limping slightly on his left leg. A dirty bandage is wrapped around that knee. A heavily reinforced welder's mask blocks much of the face and head, leaving only a line across the eyes that allows for full field of vision.
He looks nervously over his shoulder. Something darts between two cars on the tattered highway. A shadow only seen at the corners of his vision. He droops wearily for a moment, as if the stress of survival had the weight of several hundred pounds. He shakes it off and reaches for the rifle strung over his back. It looks even more battle-worn than his clothes. Despite that, it looks quite futuristic. A display on the side shows the number 21 next to a single bullet.
The shadow moves again, this time bumping into a car door, which falls off the hinges with a crash. The figure jumps visibly and fires a few shots in direction of the sound.
(That's all for now. Elapsed time: 2 hours. Goodnight everyone.)
