Silence

SILENCE

I was only 12 when it happened. It started innocuously, with random videos on YouTube and occasional news reports. At first, everyone dismissed it as pranks or strange drug-induced behavior. But as the hours turned into days, the reports grew more frequent and alarming.

Soon, it became apparent that this was no ordinary prank or drug epidemic. The world was teetering on the edge of an unimaginable horror. The origin of the outbreak was traced back to the BSL-4 Lab in Porton Down, England. A brilliant, yet young and respected technician had been working with an experimental pathogen—an ambitious project undertaken by an international team of the finest scientists from America, China, Germany, and the UK. Their goal had been to create a revolutionary cancer vaccine, a beacon of hope for humanity.

However, fate had a different plan. Unbeknownst to them, their ambitious pursuit had inadvertently unleashed a catastrophic chain of events. The pathogen mutated, defying all expectations. Instead of a vaccine, it became the catalyst for the potential extinction of mankind. The infected were no longer human—they became the walking dead, relentless in their pursuit of the living.

The world plunged into an abyss of chaos and despair. People fought to survive, but their numbers dwindled. To evade the clutches of the undead, the remaining survivors adopted a chilling strategy—they embraced silence. It became the only way to avoid detection, the only hope for survival. In this desolate world, communication was reduced to whispers and subtle gestures, for even the slightest sound could attract the attention of the relentless hordes.

And so, in the aftermath of this global catastrophe, humanity stood on the precipice of annihilation. The protagonist, now older and battle-hardened, finds themselves navigating this treacherous new reality. They yearn for the restoration of connection, to rebuild a semblance of community in a world shrouded in silence and death.

The first case in my home town of Bunnell , FL started as a rescue mission . A small airplane crashed in the cabbage field at the corner of Canal Ave and County Road 305 , The John M. Seay Farm. The plane came down hard and broke up . It appeared to be out of fuel since it wasn't running on impact , or maybe just mechanical failure . I was with my parents at the barbeque stand only 200 feet away . At first we just stared in disbelief as some of the farm workers rushed towards the bodies and people around me called 911 . I watched a field hand bend down next to one of the bodies as a nearby sheriff patrol speed across the field , abandoning the ticket he was writing . The field hand knelt down close and that's when I saw it . Red mist spayed through the air as the field hand jumped back holding his neck as blood was clearly visible drenching his pale blue shirt and his tan khakis . I saw the one he knelt next to jump up and then another body jumped up . They jumped on the man and that was the first time I heard the scream . It's not a scream that can be duplicated because only when you're being eaten alive can you produce that pure sound of anguish . I watched , frozen in place , as people around me screamed and the two from the airplane looked up with bloodied faces then charged in our directions . My father grabbed my hand and pulled my to our truck but before turning me away I saw it . I saw the field hand . His clothes were and parts of him were missing and his entrails dragged behind him as he to charged us . That's when I screamed .

As my father yanked me towards our truck, my screams mingled with the cacophony of horror and chaos erupting around us. The air filled with the stench of blood and desperation, the very fabric of our peaceful town unraveling before our eyes. Panic spread like wildfire, and the once-tranquil countryside transformed into a battlefield of survival.

We hastily jumped into the truck, the engine roaring to life as my father slammed his foot on the pedal. Adrenaline surged through my veins, my heart pounding against my chest as the scene behind us grew smaller. Glancing back, I caught a final glimpse of the gruesome sight that still haunts my nightmares—the field hand, his body mutilated, chasing after us with an insatiable hunger.

We sped away from the farm, leaving behind the horrors that came to consume our town. The realization of what I had witnessed settled in, forever etched into the deepest recesses of my mind. It was a nightmare straight out of a horror film, but this nightmare was our reality.As my father yanked me towards our truck, my screams mingled with the cacophony of horror and chaos erupting around us. The air filled with the stench of blood and desperation, the very fabric of our peaceful town unraveling before our eyes. Panic spread like wildfire, and the once-tranquil countryside transformed into a battlefield of survival.

The following day, the once-vibrant cities of Jacksonville, Daytona, Palm Coast, and St. Augustine became eerie wastelands, overrun by the relentless dead. The surviving individuals quickly learned that sound was their most perilous enemy. It became evident that even the slightest noise could draw the attention of the ravenous horde, triggering a frenzied pursuit.

Amidst the chaos, the small city of Palatka clung to its fragile existence for an additional day. Desperation fueled their actions when news of the carnage reached their ears. As a News Jax 4 reporter and her cameraman were devoured on live television, someone with access to the town barn seized an opportunity for survival. They pilfered the stash of dynamite meant for a future project, resorting to desperate measures.

The deafening blast shattered the serenity of Palatka, toppling the towering Memorial Bridge that spanned the St. Johns River. The detonation claimed the lives of countless pedestrians fleeing on foot and motorists trapped on the bridge, creating a tragic sacrifice to delay the relentless advance of the dead. Despite their efforts, the horde could not be entirely halted. The procession of the undead surged down Highway 17, leaving only a handful of survivors to witness the approaching darkness.

As night fell, the remaining souls sought refuge, hidden away from the moonlit streets where death prowled in the shadows. The harrowing echoes of "That Scream" reverberated through the air, a haunting chorus of anguish and despair. Each anguished cry served as a painful reminder of the dwindling hope for salvation.

Within a matter of days, the entire state of Florida succumbed to the overwhelming tide of the undead. Except for the isolated sanctuary of Key West, where desperate measures were taken. Destroying bridges in a futile attempt to fortify their defenses, they inadvertently sealed their own fate. The infection breached their last line of defense, infiltrating the island like a silent assassin. In less than 36 hours, Key West, too, became the Isle of the Dead, shrouded in an oppressive silence.

The survivors who had managed to elude the relentless onslaught were left grappling with the profound loss of their homeland. They bore witness to the rapid collapse of civilization, the once-thriving communities reduced to graveyards of decay and despair. Their journey for safety and answers had taken a devastating turn, leaving them to question their chances of ever reclaiming what was lost.

As the remnants of humanity ventured forth, the weight of their sorrow and the ominous silence pressed upon them. They found themselves on a path into the unknown, where danger lurked at every turn and the dead whispered their presence in the stillness. The quest for survival had transformed into an arduous battle for the very essence of what it meant to be human.

In this shattered world, where the living clung to hope and struggled against despair, a resounding question hung heavy in the air: Could there be a glimmer of light amidst the unyielding darkness? Or was their fate sealed, forever destined to roam the decimated landscape, forever confined to a realm of silence and death?

In the days that followed, we discovered that the crash site at the John M. Seay Farm was ground zero for the outbreak not only for our community , but in fact for the state. The virus had taken hold with a terrifying swiftness, transforming innocent townsfolk into mindless, bloodthirsty creatures. The once-familiar streets became treacherous hunting grounds, where survival was determined by staying one step ahead of the relentless undead.

The memory of that initial encounter fueled my determination to find safety, to reunite with loved ones, and to seek answers amidst the chaos. Joined by a small group of survivors, we embarked on a harrowing journey through the crumbling remnants of civilization, navigating a world teeming with the infected and the ever-present silence that veiled our existence.

Amidst the constant threat of death, we clung to the hope that somewhere, somehow, there might still be pockets of humanity untouched by this merciless apocalypse. But as we moved forward, haunted by the screams and carnage we left behind, the question lingered: Will we find sanctuary, or are we condemned to wander this desolate world, forever bound by the silence of the dead?

Our truck rumbled along the desolate roads, the once-vibrant landscape now reduced to a haunting tableau of destruction, our small group of survivors shared stories of loss and desperation. Each of us carried the weight of our shattered lives, but we found solace in the unity forged by our shared struggle.

We scoured abandoned stores and houses for supplies, the eerie silence broken only by the occasional shuffling of the undead or the distant echo of a survivor's plea for help. Every encounter was a gamble, a deadly dance with fate. Our steps were measured, our breaths hushed, for any sound could be our undoing.

Communication within our group was often reduced to whispered exchanges, fearful of attracting unwanted attention. Our eyes became adept at conveying complex emotions—a glance of reassurance, a raised eyebrow signaling danger, or a solemn nod of acknowledgement for those we had lost along the way.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks blurred into months as we pressed forward. The realization that our journey may not lead us to a safe haven began to weigh heavily on our hearts. Yet, the fire of hope continued to burn, urging us to push beyond the limits of exhaustion and despair.

We encountered pockets of resistance along the way—small communities of survivors who had managed to fortify their surroundings and establish a fragile sense of normalcy. These encounters offered glimpses of what life once was, of the human spirit's resilience in the face of unspeakable horrors. But even amidst the flickering flame of hope, the pervasive silence remained, a constant reminder of the world we had lost.

As we ventured deeper into the heart of this new world, the boundaries of our understanding stretched. We discovered that not all of the infected were mindless monsters. Among them were remnants of humanity, struggling to retain a semblance of their former selves. Their existence blurred the lines between life and death, raising unsettling questions about the nature of this viral calamity.

With each passing day, the weight of responsibility grew. We became more than survivors; we became guardians of humanity's flickering flame. Our mission expanded from personal survival to the search for answers, for a way to reclaim our world from the clutches of the undead. The silence that surrounded us was no longer just a shield against detection; it became a veil of mystery, concealing secrets that could hold the key to our salvation.

As we pressed on, haunted by the ghosts of the past and the ever-present threat of the undead, the question lingered: Would our quest lead us to the answers we sought? Or would the silence of this shattered world be our eternal companion, an unbreakable bond with the dead that would define our existence?

I began to believe that perhaps there was still hope for us. Six months had passed, and our group of 11 had managed to evade the clutches of death. But fate, ever cruel, had other plans in store for us. We ventured through obscure backroads, lumber roads, and even the winding paths of National Parks, finally reaching Greeley, Missouri.

We took refuge for a night and a day, and then another night, in a weathered barn perched atop a gentle hill. From our vantage point, we could observe four houses scattered nearby. During our watch, we detected no signs of the dead. The houses, despite a few broken windows, stood seemingly untouched, their doors unmarred and their porches unstained by the horrors that had befallen the world.

In search of a sanctuary, we decided to venture towards an old farmhouse situated to the east, near the tranquil embrace of the West Black Fork River. It stood shrouded by the encompassing trees, a sanctuary promising respite and solace. With a gentle breeze guiding our steps, our group approached the farmhouse with renewed spirits. Our journey through the verdant forest felt almost idyllic, luring us deeper into its calming embrace.

Emerging from the trees, the farmhouse stood before us, a beacon of hope amidst the desolation. Enclosed by the protective canopy of trees, its white paint gleamed with an otherworldly radiance, beckoning us with silent whispers. It seemed to say, "Come and find rest, my children. Seek solace and slumber. Discover tranquility and sanctuary. Come, come..."

Filled with a mix of anticipation and trepidation, we cautiously made our way toward the house. My father took the first step, and as the floorboard beneath him creaked, he turned to glance back at us. In that moment, the tranquility shattered. Windows exploded into fragments, the door crashed down with a thunderous impact, and the walls trembled under the weight of impending doom.

Before anyone could react, a horde of the dead surged forward, consuming my father in an overwhelming tide of flesh and decay. The sheer number of bodies covering him stifled his scream, reducing it to a muffled cry akin to a distant echo, muffled beneath a pillow or buried deep within the recesses of a well-insulated home.

Utter terror seized our hearts, and screams erupted from our lips. Some among us fled in sheer panic. Like a single entity driven by insatiable hunger, the horde turned its attention toward us, their lifeless eyes fixated on our trembling forms.

In that pivotal moment, the illusion of sanctuary shattered, replaced by the harsh reality that the dead were never far behind. The once-promising haven became a graveyard of shattered dreams, an emblem of the relentless pursuit that defined our existence. Our survival instincts kicked into overdrive as we scattered, each member of our group fighting desperately for their lives, their fates entwined with the looming specter of death.

Amidst the chaos and the piercing screams that echoed through the air, a chilling question lingered: How many more sacrifices would we be forced to make in the pursuit of a fleeting hope?

Alone and battered, I managed to find my way back to the barn where my father's truck awaited. With trembling hands, I started the engine, desperation fueling my actions. The road stretched before me, a blur of trees and fleeting glimpses of houses. Telephone poles whizzed by like a disjointed picket fence as I pressed harder on the accelerator, my foot heavy with the weight of fear and survival.

In the midst of my frenzied drive, I rounded a bend, the forces of momentum tugging me toward the passenger side. A quick glance in the rearview mirror and back at the road ahead, and then it happened—a violent collision with a stalled police car. Metal crumpled and twisted, the truck and the cruiser merging into a mass of wreckage. The symphony of screeching tires and screaming metal reached a crescendo before everything went silent.

For a brief moment, weightlessness embraced me, and my mind marveled at the surreal sensation. But the respite was short-lived. With bone-jarring force, the steering wheel met my body, and the world around me twisted into a chaotic whirlwind. The windshield cracked, then shattered, disappearing into the abyss as I tumbled through the air. I landed with a sickening thud, pain coursing through every inch of my being.

Each breath was agony, needles piercing my insides, while coughing brought forth a sickening taste of blood, staining my mouth. The haunting image of the dead feasting on my father's remains burned in my mind, fueling my terror. I attempted to move, but fire erupted within my torso, searing my senses. My attempts to shift my legs only resulted in a scream escaping my lips as excruciating pain shot through my burning lungs.

Summoning every ounce of strength, I turned my gaze toward the wreckage behind me. Horror surged through me, electrifying my senses, erasing the pain momentarily. Determination surged within me as I forced myself out of the smoldering remains of the truck. My eyes darted back and forth, watching the horde closing in from all directions, their relentless advance akin to a swarm of ravenous insects converging on a source of heat on a frigid night.

Ignoring the agony pulsating through my body, I dragged myself to my feet, one broken ankle trailing behind me. My gaze landed on a nearby convenience store, a beacon of fleeting refuge. Limping forward, my broken ankle protesting each agonizing step, I reached the store's entrance. My eyes were drawn to a ladder leading upward, toward the roof—an elevated sanctuary.

With screams of unadulterated pain, horror, and desperation, I clawed my way up the ladder, each rung a torment. Finally, I reached the top, slamming the hatch shut behind me, momentarily shielding myself from the encroaching doom. Down below, the relentless dead continued their relentless pursuit, their hungry stares reaching my eyes.

I peered out from my vantage point, my gaze met by a sea of decaying faces stretching as far as my eyes could see. The realization of my plight settled over me like a suffocating shroud—hopelessness, despair, and the absence of escape. In this desolate moment, I understood the cruel truth that my struggle for survival had reached its devastating end.

I managed to get off my backpack . In it i had half of a 16 ounce bottle of water and a granola bar . That was my last meal almost three days ago . The only other contents was a couple of pens and this journal . I am so weak . I can't get off this rooftop alive . I've excepted my fate . My bag is waterproof so I will stow this journal back in it in the hopes that someone will find it . I will then sit on the edge of the roof and when my strength gives out I will think of my father as I fall to the sea of undead below me . I will remember his name as one of the fallen and speak it with my last breath before I am torn apart . I hope humanity makes it . If so and you find this journal please , God please , just speak my name aloud so I am not forever Forgotten .

Signed ,

Emily Patterson

Born June 17th 2015

Died on this unknown day in 2028

Story One of “ The diary of nightmares and Dreams “ manuscript

I was only 12 when it happened. It started innocuously, with random videos on YouTube and occasional news reports. At first, everyone dismissed it as pranks or strange drug-induced behavior. But as the hours turned into days, the reports grew more frequent and alarming.

Soon, it became apparent that this was no ordinary prank or drug epidemic. The world was teetering on the edge of an unimaginable horror. The origin of the outbreak was traced back to the BSL-4 Lab in Porton Down, England. A brilliant, yet young and respected technician had been working with an experimental pathogen—an ambitious project undertaken by an international team of the finest scientists from America, China, Germany, and the UK. Their goal had been to create a revolutionary cancer vaccine, a beacon of hope for humanity.

However, fate had a different plan. Unbeknownst to them, their ambitious pursuit had inadvertently unleashed a catastrophic chain of events. The pathogen mutated, defying all expectations. Instead of a vaccine, it became the catalyst for the potential extinction of mankind. The infected were no longer human—they became the walking dead, relentless in their pursuit of the living.

The world plunged into an abyss of chaos and despair. People fought to survive, but their numbers dwindled. To evade the clutches of the undead, the remaining survivors adopted a chilling strategy—they embraced silence. It became the only way to avoid detection, the only hope for survival. In this desolate world, communication was reduced to whispers and subtle gestures, for even the slightest sound could attract the attention of the relentless hordes.

And so, in the aftermath of this global catastrophe, humanity stood on the precipice of annihilation. The protagonist, now older and battle-hardened, finds themselves navigating this treacherous new reality. They yearn for the restoration of connection, to rebuild a semblance of community in a world shrouded in silence and death.

The first case in my home town of Bunnell , FL started as a rescue mission . A small airplane crashed in the cabbage field at the corner of Canal Ave and County Road 305 , The John M. Seay Farm. The plane came down hard and broke up . It appeared to be out of fuel since it wasn't running on impact , or maybe just mechanical failure . I was with my parents at the barbeque stand only 200 feet away . At first we just stared in disbelief as some of the farm workers rushed towards the bodies and people around me called 911 . I watched a field hand bend down next to one of the bodies as a nearby sheriff patrol speed across the field , abandoning the ticket he was writing . The field hand knelt down close and that's when I saw it . Red mist spayed through the air as the field hand jumped back holding his neck as blood was clearly visible drenching his pale blue shirt and his tan khakis . I saw the one he knelt next to jump up and then another body jumped up . They jumped on the man and that was the first time I heard the scream . It's not a scream that can be duplicated because only when you're being eaten alive can you produce that pure sound of anguish . I watched , frozen in place , as people around me screamed and the two from the airplane looked up with bloodied faces then charged in our directions . My father grabbed my hand and pulled my to our truck but before turning me away I saw it . I saw the field hand . His clothes were and parts of him were missing and his entrails dragged behind him as he to charged us . That's when I screamed .

As my father yanked me towards our truck, my screams mingled with the cacophony of horror and chaos erupting around us. The air filled with the stench of blood and desperation, the very fabric of our peaceful town unraveling before our eyes. Panic spread like wildfire, and the once-tranquil countryside transformed into a battlefield of survival.

We hastily jumped into the truck, the engine roaring to life as my father slammed his foot on the pedal. Adrenaline surged through my veins, my heart pounding against my chest as the scene behind us grew smaller. Glancing back, I caught a final glimpse of the gruesome sight that still haunts my nightmares—the field hand, his body mutilated, chasing after us with an insatiable hunger.

We sped away from the farm, leaving behind the horrors that came to consume our town. The realization of what I had witnessed settled in, forever etched into the deepest recesses of my mind. It was a nightmare straight out of a horror film, but this nightmare was our reality.As my father yanked me towards our truck, my screams mingled with the cacophony of horror and chaos erupting around us. The air filled with the stench of blood and desperation, the very fabric of our peaceful town unraveling before our eyes. Panic spread like wildfire, and the once-tranquil countryside transformed into a battlefield of survival.

The following day, the once-vibrant cities of Jacksonville, Daytona, Palm Coast, and St. Augustine became eerie wastelands, overrun by the relentless dead. The surviving individuals quickly learned that sound was their most perilous enemy. It became evident that even the slightest noise could draw the attention of the ravenous horde, triggering a frenzied pursuit.

Amidst the chaos, the small city of Palatka clung to its fragile existence for an additional day. Desperation fueled their actions when news of the carnage reached their ears. As a News Jax 4 reporter and her cameraman were devoured on live television, someone with access to the town barn seized an opportunity for survival. They pilfered the stash of dynamite meant for a future project, resorting to desperate measures.

The deafening blast shattered the serenity of Palatka, toppling the towering Memorial Bridge that spanned the St. Johns River. The detonation claimed the lives of countless pedestrians fleeing on foot and motorists trapped on the bridge, creating a tragic sacrifice to delay the relentless advance of the dead. Despite their efforts, the horde could not be entirely halted. The procession of the undead surged down Highway 17, leaving only a handful of survivors to witness the approaching darkness.

As night fell, the remaining souls sought refuge, hidden away from the moonlit streets where death prowled in the shadows. The harrowing echoes of "That Scream" reverberated through the air, a haunting chorus of anguish and despair. Each anguished cry served as a painful reminder of the dwindling hope for salvation.

Within a matter of days, the entire state of Florida succumbed to the overwhelming tide of the undead. Except for the isolated sanctuary of Key West, where desperate measures were taken. Destroying bridges in a futile attempt to fortify their defenses, they inadvertently sealed their own fate. The infection breached their last line of defense, infiltrating the island like a silent assassin. In less than 36 hours, Key West, too, became the Isle of the Dead, shrouded in an oppressive silence.

The survivors who had managed to elude the relentless onslaught were left grappling with the profound loss of their homeland. They bore witness to the rapid collapse of civilization, the once-thriving communities reduced to graveyards of decay and despair. Their journey for safety and answers had taken a devastating turn, leaving them to question their chances of ever reclaiming what was lost.

As the remnants of humanity ventured forth, the weight of their sorrow and the ominous silence pressed upon them. They found themselves on a path into the unknown, where danger lurked at every turn and the dead whispered their presence in the stillness. The quest for survival had transformed into an arduous battle for the very essence of what it meant to be human.

In this shattered world, where the living clung to hope and struggled against despair, a resounding question hung heavy in the air: Could there be a glimmer of light amidst the unyielding darkness? Or was their fate sealed, forever destined to roam the decimated landscape, forever confined to a realm of silence and death?

In the days that followed, we discovered that the crash site at the John M. Seay Farm was ground zero for the outbreak not only for our community , but in fact for the state. The virus had taken hold with a terrifying swiftness, transforming innocent townsfolk into mindless, bloodthirsty creatures. The once-familiar streets became treacherous hunting grounds, where survival was determined by staying one step ahead of the relentless undead.

The memory of that initial encounter fueled my determination to find safety, to reunite with loved ones, and to seek answers amidst the chaos. Joined by a small group of survivors, we embarked on a harrowing journey through the crumbling remnants of civilization, navigating a world teeming with the infected and the ever-present silence that veiled our existence.

Amidst the constant threat of death, we clung to the hope that somewhere, somehow, there might still be pockets of humanity untouched by this merciless apocalypse. But as we moved forward, haunted by the screams and carnage we left behind, the question lingered: Will we find sanctuary, or are we condemned to wander this desolate world, forever bound by the silence of the dead?

Our truck rumbled along the desolate roads, the once-vibrant landscape now reduced to a haunting tableau of destruction, our small group of survivors shared stories of loss and desperation. Each of us carried the weight of our shattered lives, but we found solace in the unity forged by our shared struggle.

We scoured abandoned stores and houses for supplies, the eerie silence broken only by the occasional shuffling of the undead or the distant echo of a survivor's plea for help. Every encounter was a gamble, a deadly dance with fate. Our steps were measured, our breaths hushed, for any sound could be our undoing.

Communication within our group was often reduced to whispered exchanges, fearful of attracting unwanted attention. Our eyes became adept at conveying complex emotions—a glance of reassurance, a raised eyebrow signaling danger, or a solemn nod of acknowledgement for those we had lost along the way.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks blurred into months as we pressed forward. The realization that our journey may not lead us to a safe haven began to weigh heavily on our hearts. Yet, the fire of hope continued to burn, urging us to push beyond the limits of exhaustion and despair.

We encountered pockets of resistance along the way—small communities of survivors who had managed to fortify their surroundings and establish a fragile sense of normalcy. These encounters offered glimpses of what life once was, of the human spirit's resilience in the face of unspeakable horrors. But even amidst the flickering flame of hope, the pervasive silence remained, a constant reminder of the world we had lost.

As we ventured deeper into the heart of this new world, the boundaries of our understanding stretched. We discovered that not all of the infected were mindless monsters. Among them were remnants of humanity, struggling to retain a semblance of their former selves. Their existence blurred the lines between life and death, raising unsettling questions about the nature of this viral calamity.

With each passing day, the weight of responsibility grew. We became more than survivors; we became guardians of humanity's flickering flame. Our mission expanded from personal survival to the search for answers, for a way to reclaim our world from the clutches of the undead. The silence that surrounded us was no longer just a shield against detection; it became a veil of mystery, concealing secrets that could hold the key to our salvation.

As we pressed on, haunted by the ghosts of the past and the ever-present threat of the undead, the question lingered: Would our quest lead us to the answers we sought? Or would the silence of this shattered world be our eternal companion, an unbreakable bond with the dead that would define our existence?

I began to believe that perhaps there was still hope for us. Six months had passed, and our group of 11 had managed to evade the clutches of death. But fate, ever cruel, had other plans in store for us. We ventured through obscure backroads, lumber roads, and even the winding paths of National Parks, finally reaching Greeley, Missouri.

We took refuge for a night and a day, and then another night, in a weathered barn perched atop a gentle hill. From our vantage point, we could observe four houses scattered nearby. During our watch, we detected no signs of the dead. The houses, despite a few broken windows, stood seemingly untouched, their doors unmarred and their porches unstained by the horrors that had befallen the world.

In search of a sanctuary, we decided to venture towards an old farmhouse situated to the east, near the tranquil embrace of the West Black Fork River. It stood shrouded by the encompassing trees, a sanctuary promising respite and solace. With a gentle breeze guiding our steps, our group approached the farmhouse with renewed spirits. Our journey through the verdant forest felt almost idyllic, luring us deeper into its calming embrace.

Emerging from the trees, the farmhouse stood before us, a beacon of hope amidst the desolation. Enclosed by the protective canopy of trees, its white paint gleamed with an otherworldly radiance, beckoning us with silent whispers. It seemed to say, "Come and find rest, my children. Seek solace and slumber. Discover tranquility and sanctuary. Come, come..."

Filled with a mix of anticipation and trepidation, we cautiously made our way toward the house. My father took the first step, and as the floorboard beneath him creaked, he turned to glance back at us. In that moment, the tranquility shattered. Windows exploded into fragments, the door crashed down with a thunderous impact, and the walls trembled under the weight of impending doom.

Before anyone could react, a horde of the dead surged forward, consuming my father in an overwhelming tide of flesh and decay. The sheer number of bodies covering him stifled his scream, reducing it to a muffled cry akin to a distant echo, muffled beneath a pillow or buried deep within the recesses of a well-insulated home.

Utter terror seized our hearts, and screams erupted from our lips. Some among us fled in sheer panic. Like a single entity driven by insatiable hunger, the horde turned its attention toward us, their lifeless eyes fixated on our trembling forms.

In that pivotal moment, the illusion of sanctuary shattered, replaced by the harsh reality that the dead were never far behind. The once-promising haven became a graveyard of shattered dreams, an emblem of the relentless pursuit that defined our existence. Our survival instincts kicked into overdrive as we scattered, each member of our group fighting desperately for their lives, their fates entwined with the looming specter of death.

Amidst the chaos and the piercing screams that echoed through the air, a chilling question lingered: How many more sacrifices would we be forced to make in the pursuit of a fleeting hope?

Alone and battered, I managed to find my way back to the barn where my father's truck awaited. With trembling hands, I started the engine, desperation fueling my actions. The road stretched before me, a blur of trees and fleeting glimpses of houses. Telephone poles whizzed by like a disjointed picket fence as I pressed harder on the accelerator, my foot heavy with the weight of fear and survival.

In the midst of my frenzied drive, I rounded a bend, the forces of momentum tugging me toward the passenger side. A quick glance in the rearview mirror and back at the road ahead, and then it happened—a violent collision with a stalled police car. Metal crumpled and twisted, the truck and the cruiser merging into a mass of wreckage. The symphony of screeching tires and screaming metal reached a crescendo before everything went silent.

For a brief moment, weightlessness embraced me, and my mind marveled at the surreal sensation. But the respite was short-lived. With bone-jarring force, the steering wheel met my body, and the world around me twisted into a chaotic whirlwind. The windshield cracked, then shattered, disappearing into the abyss as I tumbled through the air. I landed with a sickening thud, pain coursing through every inch of my being.

Each breath was agony, needles piercing my insides, while coughing brought forth a sickening taste of blood, staining my mouth. The haunting image of the dead feasting on my father's remains burned in my mind, fueling my terror. I attempted to move, but fire erupted within my torso, searing my senses. My attempts to shift my legs only resulted in a scream escaping my lips as excruciating pain shot through my burning lungs.

Summoning every ounce of strength, I turned my gaze toward the wreckage behind me. Horror surged through me, electrifying my senses, erasing the pain momentarily. Determination surged within me as I forced myself out of the smoldering remains of the truck. My eyes darted back and forth, watching the horde closing in from all directions, their relentless advance akin to a swarm of ravenous insects converging on a source of heat on a frigid night.

Ignoring the agony pulsating through my body, I dragged myself to my feet, one broken ankle trailing behind me. My gaze landed on a nearby convenience store, a beacon of fleeting refuge. Limping forward, my broken ankle protesting each agonizing step, I reached the store's entrance. My eyes were drawn to a ladder leading upward, toward the roof—an elevated sanctuary.

With screams of unadulterated pain, horror, and desperation, I clawed my way up the ladder, each rung a torment. Finally, I reached the top, slamming the hatch shut behind me, momentarily shielding myself from the encroaching doom. Down below, the relentless dead continued their relentless pursuit, their hungry stares reaching my eyes.

I peered out from my vantage point, my gaze met by a sea of decaying faces stretching as far as my eyes could see. The realization of my plight settled over me like a suffocating shroud—hopelessness, despair, and the absence of escape. In this desolate moment, I understood the cruel truth that my struggle for survival had reached its devastating end.

I managed to get off my backpack . In it i had half of a 16 ounce bottle of water and a granola bar . That was my last meal almost three days ago . The only other contents was a couple of pens and this journal . I am so weak . I can't get off this rooftop alive . I've excepted my fate . My bag is waterproof so I will stow this journal back in it in the hopes that someone will find it . I will then sit on the edge of the roof and when my strength gives out I will think of my father as I fall to the sea of undead below me . I will remember his name as one of the fallen and speak it with my last breath before I am torn apart . I hope humanity makes it . If so and you find this journal please , God please , just speak my name aloud so I am not forever Forgotten .

Signed ,

Emily Patterson

Born June 17th 2015

Died on this unknown day in 2028