Sunday, 31 July 2011

I really have to get over myself

If I want to live.
You all saw what happened. Walter... fuck. Walter left.
And we all know what he is now.
But me, I couldn't leave it at that, oh no. Suze is smart. She fought back in words.

(Not that it did anything)

But me, for some reason I thought, I don't know. Was I even thinking?
So I followed him.

It doesn't get less genre-savvy than this, folks. But Walter had changed. In the moment that he had reached... some sort of realization, something turned into something else.

(I know I'm not making a lot of sense, sorrysorrysorry)

Either way. He knew. And not like my tripping and stumbling in the undergrowth made it any better.

"I assume you're not here to come with me."

He gave me a sad smile and his eyes positively shone in the moonlight and for some reason he didn't seem human anymore-

"Walter. Walter, you don't have to do this. You're being stupid."

I'm a genius, you know that? He took one step towards me, then two, and I instinctively stepped away.

Well fuck.

"I think the climax of the book will be the execution of poor old Edgar Derby. The irony is so great. A whole city gets burned down, and thousands of thousands of people are killed. And this one American solider is arrested in the ruins for taking a teapot. And he's given a regular trial, and then he's shot by a firing squad..." He looks down at the ground, still smiling softly.


"Don't you think, Lyle, that's really where the climax should come?"

Slaughter-House Five. One of Zach's favorites. I'd read it the day after he...

"You don't have to do this, Walter, this isn't your fault!"

He tilts his head at me, and for a second I panic because I seem to have a two phrase vocabulary.

"Just because it isn't my fault doesn't mean I can't do something. You're all afraid."


"And I'm not a madman because I accept my fear."

And I try and look up at him, accept what he is saying.(IwillrunfrommyfearIwilloutdistancemyfearthenIwillhidefrommyfearIwillwaitformyfearIwillletmyfearrunpastmethenIwillfollowmyfearIwilltrackmyfearuntilIcanapproachmyfearincompletesilencethenIwillstrikeatmyfearIwillchargemyfearIwillgrabholdofmyfearIwillsinkmyfingersintomyfearthenIwillbitemyfearIwilltearthethroatofmyfearIwillbreaktheneckofmyfearIwilldrinkthebloodofmyfearIwillgulpthefleshofmyfearIwillcrushthebonesofmyfearandIwillsavormyfearIwillswallowmyfearandthenIwilldigestmyfearuntilIcandonothingelsebutshitoutmyfearIn this way I will be made stronger.)

"You ARE a madman, Walter. What happened to saying that you weren't giving up? That you weren't going to let anyone else give up?" And he turned away from me and muttered

"I said I wasn't a madman. I never said I was a person."

And he left me standing there. Standing there until I was so cold and numb that it didn't hurt anymore to look at the blank space that he had been standing in. I came back to camp empty handed. Richard was busy staring into space, and when he saw me, he put his head into his hands.

Everyone else was asleep.
Everyone else was awake, waiting.
And I didn't say a thing.

Saturday, 30 July 2011




Fucking what.

Walter Bishop Reeves, are you out of your fucking mind?!

Did all of that philosophical bullshit finally drive you insane? Are you some kind of idiot? Joining //them// solves nothing. They'll use you like a tool and then kill you when they're bored of you.

Just like the rest of us.

Zach was their toy. Lyle is their toy. I'm their toy. You're their toy and once they're finished with Walter Reeves we're going to find him in a garbage bag, cut up into snack-sized cubes served with a fragrant sauce of blood and other bodily fluids.

And that's if they're feeling merciful.

If you're not back in camp by midnight tonight I swear to God I will hunt you down myself and make //he// does seem like a fucking picnic.

Am I understood, motherfucker?
... What.

New avenues

I tell you everything that is really nothing, and nothing of what is everything, do not be fooled by what I am saying. Please listen carefully and try to hear what I am not saying. ~Charles C. Finn

Lies are easy.

Being afraid is easy. Accepting something without explanation is easy.
Being a philosopher, a truth seeker, however, is something that is very, very difficult.
Especially when the truth is not evident, not right in front of you.
It was so simple.

It was so simple and I never noticed. Return to Zero, back to idioms and White Elephants, to something as simple as fairy tales of dragons and Sages, Reach for the surface of the water and watch it ripple.
London Librarians and Latin curses, Let Us Live in Dreams in Darkness. Take the Myths and make them your own, but don't Shoot The Messenger upon Ravens and Writing Desks. Create an Origin of Simulation and keep Venting Hate. Become Stardust and tell a Really Bad Joke. Seek Truth and Record Impossibility.
Speak in circles.

I've got that one down.

False Dichotomy. A basic fallacy of logic. I thought there were only two choices available to me in this forest;
Escape or die.
It's almost funny because I realize now... I have more options than that.
More options than any of you could imagine.
I said I couldn't find answers.

Turns out I was looking in the wrong places.

If we're going to be in a war, I'm going to join the winning side. It's nothing personal; in fact, I suggest that all my fellow Subjects join me.
Because I can't die here.
There's just too much for me to do.
Bertrand Russell ocne said that "The Observer, when he seems to himself to be observing a stone, is really, if physics is to be believed, observing the effects of the stone upon himself. "

If only we could bring ourselves to believe that was true.


Tuesday, 26 July 2011

The Nights Are Getting Longer

And the deaths less frequent.

Since our little run-in with Slender that left the camp in pieces and filled Nick with what I can only call hopeless bravado, (and we all saw how well that worked out) things have been pretty quiet around here. A lot of us are beginning to relax and the air of the camp almost feels ... calm. Elliott brought out his guitar last night and we all ate squirrel and blueberries and forgot the fact that we're all almost certainly doomed.

That's not to say they've ceased, though. Every once and a while, I'll lay awake in my tent at night and realize that I'm not the only one who finds a time for reflection and soul-crushing realization that we're stuck here, and most of us won't live to see civilization ever again.

I've dropped from a size 14 down to a size 10 and I don't show any signs of stopping. You look around camp and suddenly everybody's bone thin and pale as death; the lack of sun and proper food really isn't really good for us. Even Richard is starting to succumb to malnutrition and lack of sleep, and this is a man who is build like an ice box and moves like a snake.

Lyle (who was skinny as a rake to begin with) looks like a skeleton saran-wrapped in a web of dark veins and white skin. I equate him to something of an old thermos: he seems solid and reliable on the surface, but it's only until you fill him up and watch the life drain from his eyes that you realize the glass inside is broken.

On a long enough timeline, the survival rate for everybody drops to zero.

There's been more than one time when I've angsted all over the post editor just to hit backspace until the words are gone, because I know there's a time and a place for that and the middle of a post isn't the time and the blog isn't the place.

The internet, unlike real life, has the most beautiful invention known as the backspace key.


It's somewhere around 3:30 AM - or is it? I woke up one night to find my clock telling me it was January 23th, 2323. (Haha, motherfucker. Nobody's laughing.) Silence has fallen upon the camp for the first time in ... ever, really. It's hard to find silence anymore. 

As I've stated, everybody else seem to take this sudden lull in activity as a sign of things looking up. Well, except for the ones who've known something was wrong from base one. Lyle, Alex, Richard ... surely you know which ones I'm referring to by now. The ones who blog. The ones who have kept you informed and me sane.

The lull makes me wonder if something big isn't about to go down.

The calm before the storm.

Sunday, 17 July 2011

We're playing into their hands

It sure has been a while, hasn't it? Yet again, there really hasn't been much to say.

Nick did recover, but that depends on what you call recovery. The minute he could walk, he ran into the forest and-

Really, you should know the rest by now.

It's getting a bit hopeless, our situation. Some, like Richard, still show hints of wary optimism; trying to keep the glass eyed dolls somewhat engaged, from looking at the darkness that circles us, prowls the paths at night, branching tendrils that follow silently behind you in a wave of something that you don't quite understand and will eventually-

I digress.

Today we discuss Hegemony, but first, perhaps, a detour?

Dominant ideology. In Marxist theory, is a set of common values and beliefs shared by a majority of people in any given society, setting a precedent how that majority will regard different topics. Marx argues that, in his socio-political worldview, Dominant ideology is used to reflect and serve the interests of the almost superior class in that society- if it conflicted with the legitimacy of the superior class's rule, than the society would appear to be at a constant state of chaos within itself; superiority appearing as an illegitimate occupation.

This theory is therefore summarized; "The dominant ideology is the ideology of the superior, dominant class."

Whereas basic Hegemony is child's play, its offshoots are a tad bit more complicated. Really, Hegemony is described as an indirect form of imperial dominance is which a leader state (in this case, the Greek Hegemon), rules sub-ordinates by the implied means of power, as opposed to a direct showing of military force. Curiously, Hegemony is used in languages to describe a means of application and creation; any source that classifies information is, intentionally or not, part of a Hegemonic process, in that source can only contain a finite amount of information. Therefore, in the particular selection of information that is displayed, the source is limiting and skewing the information that the recipient gets; influencing the recipients choices based on that information.

... Leading into Cultural Hegemony. Gramsci, a martyr of his time. Now, he stated that a culturally diverse society can be easily dominated (and therefore ruled) by one social class by manipulating the social cultural beliefs, explanations, perceptions, and values, so that the resulting ruling-class worldview is imposed as the socialistic norm;

which is then perceived as a universally valid ideology and status quo beneficial to that society, while in actuality it only benefits the ruling class.

Interestingly enough, it is impossible to have full understanding of these three concepts without understanding the others, for they go, almost universally, hand in hand. Curiouser and curiouser.

So the superior class, the ruling class, uses Cultural hegemony to set dominant ideology; in simple terms; the set the rules and then use their authority to keep them in place. The very nature of hegemonic rule keeps this behaviour perpetuated, resulting in maximum profit and success for the ruling class.


How do they maintain this level of control? Surely, if we realized this was going on, we would not allow it; after all, we are creatures of choice, not to answer to any master! We are our own kings of destiny, conquerors of logic and cheaters of death! How dare I, in my impudence, even so much as suggest the opposite?

Of course you would say that. That's what everyone says, because we are taught to think that. We are taught to be happy as lobotomized salves to our own shackles that we call "choice".

After all, the best form of control is control that your subjects are not aware of.

Now, as per usual; how does this tie into our current situation? I have been made aware that one; I hold very little power in this place, two; that I therefore hold very little sway, and three; there is very little I can do to remedy this. Perhaps it was better when the wool was over my eyes, when I felt that I could make a difference, that with enough research, I could fight against this.... Thing, that my knowledge counted for something.

I was wrong.

I didn't even get that Sarah was in danger until it was thrown into my face that she was dead, didn't assist Clair until it was too late, didn't apprehend Lyric by any means necessary, didn't even get to speak with Robert or confide in the Doctor before it became clear that the Collector holds all the cards, and I just keep betting on a useless hand.

(Didn't, or couldn't? I still ask myself this as I read Nick's last post; It bleeds? What nonsense is that? How could It bleed, when it towers over us, watching, observing, as impassive as a god?)

I believe that I said in my first post that I refused to give up, that if I ceased my efforts than I would have to give up my own personhood. It's coming to my attention that perhaps slow degradation of this view is something that we all experience...

"Did I do any good?" That question, it seems, comes up a fair deal; though, it only seems to surface near the time of death, the time of reckoning. I need no validation. It still stands, regardless. Though I feel it's less that, than rather...

"Did I do enough?"

And the answer, of course, is a quiet



Saturday, 16 July 2011




He bleeds.







Erin, I'm going to get you out of here babe. I'm going to kill the motherfucker and we're going to run away from here and not give a fuck about anybody else and we'll buy a home in california like you always wanted.

But first I have to go kill the faceless FUCK who's been stalking us since day one.

That's right motherfucker. Keep laughing. I didn't know who you were but you were some FUCKING IDIOT in the trees just watching us as we set up and I didn't care at the time because I thought you were just some tourist or some shit but now I know and I know you bleed and you're going to die.

Hahahaha you're going to die.

Be right back.


I saw HIM.

The stupid faceless FUCKER. He was just starin' at me even though he doesn't have eyes and his head was sideways and he just STARED and I tried to punch the motherfucker but he's too fucking tall man, too fucking tall to be HUMAN. What the fuck is he? I tried to punch him but I just got this BAD fuckin' throbbing in my punching hand and now my fingers look all mangled and shit and doc says they're not broken so I'm just supposed to WAIT until they get better again.



Thursday, 14 July 2011

Are you scared?

I didn't find him the fucker I bet he's hiding from me. I didn't seem him and I got this STUPID FUCKING HEADACHE doc do you have any tylenol or some shit? I could really use it and I got this really bad cough but I think it's going away now. Stupid fucking pussie ass bitch.

Doc where's that tylenol? My arm hurts like a motherfucker.

Read the blog

You guys are a bunch of pussies. I mean, Richard is the only one who does any real FIGHTING around here and Lyle and Suze just sit off in their corner with Alex and Walter and just talk and talk and talk what the fuck are you guys doing? We're all DYING and you're havin' fuckin' story time. The doc really doesn't want me moving and stuff but I've got the urge to FUCK SOMETHING UP and I think I want to go after Collector or bitchface or whatever you call him.

I'm gonna go for a walk.

Tuesday, 12 July 2011

Doc says I'm okay now

It's about fucking time!

I've been telling you for fuckin' days, doc, I'm doing fine! Geez! A little broken ankle and a couple dislocated arms and you think I'm going to die or somethin'. I'm not a little pussy like Trent I can get a little fucked up without dyin' ya know.

Who was the faceless fucker in the suit who attacked us? Slenderman or somethin'. Dude's got some nerve if he thinks he can mess with NICHOLAS MOTHERFUCKING DAY. I'm gonna cut him up and serve him for DINNER.

And what's with that PUSSY ASS BITCH with the boxcutter? He's lucky I wasn't busy trying to protect Erin or else I would have fucked him up too.

(Suze is sayin' I need to stop cussing on the blog. "NAG NAG NAG we get enough of it in camp at least try to be formal you idiot NAG NAG NAG")

Stupid fuckin' forest with it's stupid fuckin' maze. Where the hell are we? Suze and Lyle said they found the campground but nobody was there. BUT WHY THE HELL DIDN'T YOU GO FURTHER? You could have gotten out man, fuck the rest of us!

Whatever. I'm out.

Thursday, 7 July 2011

Hope Spot

Lyle and I found our way out of the forest today.

Sort of.

While what we found wasn't ... whatever the fuck it is we're trapped in now, the desolate campgrounds beyond the forest's tangle of creepers and rotting branches continues to be very, very far from my idea of salvation.

Alex and Richard were steadfast about not going back into the forest. Did I blame them? Of course not. Alex's cough's been acting up (not that he's admitting anything) and he still hasn't posted the Status Report, so either something's wrong or he's just getting lazy. (Not that he's admitting anything.)

So Lyle and I decided to go.

We both knew very well this wasn't the greatest idea, but hell. Chase has been ... well, you've seen his posts. We were both worried because the last thing we needed was two more corpses to the pile, (nononooptimismSuzeoptimismoptimismyou'regoingtobeokay) but we figured medicine > everything (and escape > everything, but hadn't we all given up on finding that?) and, hell. I'm not going to lie. Getting out of that camp even for a little bit was nice, even if the though of Slim n' Trim loomed over us (metaphorically and literally at one point, luckily we only encountered the faceless twit once.) like an anvil at the end of one big, fucked up Wile E. Coyote scheme.  

So we walked.

Lyle and I don't really have a lot to say to each other. Other than Zach we have literally nothing in common, and he isn't exactly what I'd consider the socializing type. We were completely silent until we got a point where the path was blocked by a fallen tree, when we stopped to look at each other.

"Gotta go over it."

Lyle, being the gentleman that he is, kindly offered to let me go first. But as I set a foot on top of the log and put my full weight on it, I felt it give and roll forward.

I fell into the thicket beside the rotting tree with a the grace of a cow piloting a 747 and swore with all the lady-like sophistication of a sailor who had had five too many bottles of rum.

And what I landed in wasn't what I expected.

At all.

What I had expected was a further tangle of undergrowth and my hair getting caught in a billion places, each one more painful to remove than the last.

What I didn't expect was to roll an extra couple feet and find myself in the middle of the campgrounds where all the rich folk and their RVs had been left to rot.

We couldn't find anything inside those tin cans called RVs, and what few tents still remained had been torn to shreds. Everything was burned, and soot choked our lungs like the fog choked the air. There wasn't a single structure that hadn't been touched by the fog, and everything held within its grasp seemed devoid of both colour and life; the soot that clogged our throats and caused us to cough (though we both knew, though neither of us wanted to admit, that Someone Else was also responsible for it as well) was also found like a blanket, hugging every surface it could hope to land on, and then some it couldn't.

It may have been raining, because through the fog and between the trailers (hoping - no, praying that we found somebody, anybody inside of those thin metal walls, always finding nothing and always losing a little more hope when we did - or rather, didn't) we were hit with icy dagger from above that soaked our hair and our clothes and turned the ground sticky and black.

Neither of us spoke a word.

It was ... quiet. I know you'll hear people on this blog go on about it all the time, but I don't think they've ever heard true silence. The silence we have at the camp is peppered with breathing and shifting and wind howling and trees rustling and, if you strain, screaming. (Or maybe it's nothing at all. Guilt-ridden hallucinations? Fabrications of our imagination? Maybe it's all in our heads. Chase seems to have it the worse right now, what with bitchface's little butchering of the Hippocratic Oath.)

Well, the silence that fell on the campground was complete. Even the rain that soaked us to the bitter bone fell without a sound, and our footsteps seemed as if they weren't there at all. When we turned our heads to look behind us (which we did a lot, both out of paranoia and ... okay, maybe it was only paranoia, but that isn't the point) the places where our shoes touched the ground and we fought to bring them back up from the sludge on the ground were undisturbed.

This went on for two hours.

We went through every tent, every RV, every garbage can and hiking pack.

And who did I see perched atop an RV?

A blonde brat in a hoodie.

Bitchface was laughing; he'd probably been watching the entire time.

Oh fuck you.

"...There's nothing here." It was Lyle who broke the silence, saying what I had been thinking for the last twenty minutes or so.


I couldn't stop glaring daggers at our Collecting friend.

"... Yeah."


I shook my head, offering him a smile as hollow as the RV we just emerged from. "Yeah. Let's go."

You know, a lot of the time I complain about the fact that this is The Place That Physics Left Behind. When there's a clearing in front of camp one day and a river the next, after a while you kind of just give up and go with it. 

What choice do you have?

But after a couple hours of playing chicken with bitchface and not well equipped enough (or in the best condition, especially after last Saturday. Wow. A week already?) to do anything about it, I was thankful to cut through that foliage and find camp, not the road.

It's about time we got a bit of a break.

Going to catch up on some fucking sleep,

Wednesday, 6 July 2011

//Collecting// the history

I swear by The Leader, the healer, the savior , and the creator, and I take to witness all the witnesses to keep according to my ability and my judgment, the following Oath and agreement:

To consider dear to me, as my parents who sacrificed me, Him who taught me this art; to live in common with Him and, if necessary, to share my goods with Him; To look upon His children as my own brothers, to teach them this art.

I will prescribe regimens for the good of my patients according to my ability and my judgment and never undo harm to anyone.

I will not give a lethal drug to anyone if I am asked, nor will I advise such a plan despite their pain and suffering, But I will preserve the purity of my life and my arts and my selfishness.

I will not cut for stone, even for patients in whom the disease is manifest; I will leave this operation to be performed by practitioners, specialists in this art, and leave them to die as they scream my name in agony.

In every house where I come I will enter only for the good of my patients, keeping myself far from all intentional ill-doing and all seduction, infringing on only their shattered psyche and leaving nothing else in my wake.

All that may come to my knowledge in the exercise of my profession or in daily commerce with men, which ought not to be spread abroad, I will keep secret and will never reveal, despite the fact that it may save them.

If I keep this oath faithfully, may I enjoy my life and practice my art, respected by all men and in all times; but if I swerve from it or violate it, may the reverse be my lot, may I be trialed, judged, and sentenced to death.

See, you almost forgot~! Let me remind you, Subjects; you are playing by my rules.

They will die, despite your best efforts, and there is nothing you can do about it.

Monday, 4 July 2011

Need Sleep.

Still haven't gotten any since wednesday and now it's really starting to show.

Well the Collector was right about one thing it's that he's pretty good at predicting who is and who isn't going to survive. But out here is anybody really surprised when we're already short supplies and Alex and Richard come back with nothing. Not that I'm blaming them but they'd be REALLY, REALLY USEFUL right about now.


They'd always be useful because if you haven't caught on by now it's an almost certain that we're all pretty much boned.

Three of them were lucky enough to get sick from the infections, fall asleep and just never wake up. I'm envious of them in one way but in another I guess I'm thankful I'm alive.

(I look across the camp and someone is on the ground, screaming. There are five hundred black trees surrounding the camp and I can count the leaves on every last one of them. They're twisting and writhing and they're picked up by Everyone's Favourite Faceless Bastard and torn to shreds and the blood pours like a fountain and I'm covered in it the tents are covered in and the trees are painted red, red, red and there's enough of it to put out the fire and what's left of them hangs from the once-black-now-red branches.)

One of them just managed to disappear when we weren't looking. I was with Lyle talking about what we were going to do now that we're going to run dangerously low on supplies, and Suze popped in and asked where Opal was.

(She's another one of those 'peroxide blondes' i told you about way before all of THIS happened. Cute girl with a pretty smile and sparkling blue eyes. Her boyfriend was a total douche and he didn't deserve her at all. Well now nobody has her.)

The only thing I could think about was how she would have managed to stumble out of camp with a shredded muscles in one leg and a fractured femur in the other, where she shouldn't be able to PUT WEIGHT on her foot without SCREAMING in pain let alone get out of camp unnoticed.

Then again who said she had to walk?

I heard people coughing.

(And I look at Suze and when I blink it looks like she's been literally hit by the metaphorical semi that she's mentioned. Pieces of bone jut out from where the bridge of her nose used to be and there are two empty sockets where her eyes should be with cheeks caked in wet over dried over wet blood that forms like mountains around what's left of her dimples. What used to be her scalp has been completely removed and there's grayish pink matter - as if we don't know what THAT is - dripping down the sides and her ears are bleeding heavily as well and she lets out this long moan of pain and I blink again and she's fine.)

But if there's anything good to be said about the situation it's the Nick seems to be healing nicely.

His broken ribs are slowly healing and his arms are both back in place, and other than a hair-line fracture that's already healed and a ton of ripped muscle tendons he looks like he'll be okay. He's managed to fight off the bacteria and feels like enough of his old self to be A TOTAL ASSHOLE to the classmate trying to save his life.

He's lucky I put professional practice before my OUTRAGEOUS EGO.

But the fact that his name is still crossed off worries me. I guess if I expect us all to die (OH WOW IS THAT EVER DEPRESSING) I shouldn't be bothered by it but there's something so foreboding about seeing that 1 pixel line through a name that gives it an air of foreboding.

What's that Suze says?

On a long enough timeline, the survival rate for everyone drops to zero.

I don't think I've seen a shorter timeline or a lower survival rate.

Someone Needed to Change the Blog Description

So I changed it.

Friday, 1 July 2011

Radio Silence ending in...




And here I thought that we may be better off just shutting up and not saying anything, but, fuck, Chase is losing it and with most of us hanging on by a thread... It's, shit, hard to type without swearing every two seconds, because I'm not too sure what to say. What can I say? The /Collecting/ bastard seemed to sum it up pretty clearly, though real classy, implying that we're all injured or worse. Ha ha, you fucking wish.

(They're not dead yet They're not dead yet They're not fucking dead yet Why is everyone acting like they're not alive anymore?)

It came out of the night like a bat out of fucking hell. Or, at least, I'd like to say that. We were all on edge because of, well, how could you not be on edge in our situation? But we were all sitting around the fire, not really saying much of anything. Richard was chatting on about god knows what (I swear, he likes to hear his own voice more than anything), but this sense of almost calm had almost pervaded the camp like the sickness has pervaded our lungs.

Like that was going to last. There was this... rustle, this kind of crack, and everyone's heads whipped to the source so fast we all could've gotten whiplash or something.

You heard Suze mention Trent. And to be honest? She really, really didn't give him justice. I'm not sure I even can. He had just gone to the goddamn perimeter of the camp; not far out into the forest, to look at the symbols carved into what now are bloodstained trees.

I like that imagery as much as the next guy.

And we all go as white as a sheet, because he's stumbling towards us, towards Chase, all while whimpering desperately;


And so on and so on. And you know what? That was plenty bad enough.

(Trent was a good kid who never decided to write on the blog because "I don't want to bore the hell out of whoever is reading this out there. They deserve better than me!". He doesn't even mean anything to you, all you guys have is a name. But he played guitar, not well though; never had the time to practice. He had a girlfriend back home who was studying to be a lawyer. He had an older brother who he got along well with. He played hockey, and had talent, but wanted to get a full time job so he could get married. He did alright in our coursework, but tried harder than most of us.

And now he's dead.)

But it got worse. Of course, it got worse. The... the videos never really give It justice. It was behind him, tentacles out and ready to wreak havoc, some of the slick with (don'tthinkaboutitdon'tthinkaboutitdon'tthinkaboutit). And we just stared.

And there was this blur and this same general air of unease and someone's abdomen fell out and the screaming began and it was every man for themselves.

All things considering, it happened pretty quickly. Chase ran around, checking the bodies of those who fell for a pulse, and Richard starting barking orders and here we are.

There's just one thing that bothers me.

The Collecting bastard made a few things clear. People dead. Slender. An attack. Infection. So, assuming that the ones we have alive stay that way...

Are we going to end up having to fight our own people?

Shit. Five days ago, Richard and I were looking around the clearing, trying to find a possible way out, and he said

"It couldn't get any worse."

He was wrong. Obviously.

Now let's see if that first aid course has done me any good so Chase can get some sleep.

(At first, I didn't care. Them, not me, you know? It was knowledge versus ignorance and if they couldn't deal with it then it would be their bodies on the ground, not mine. But then I started to know their names and see their faces and get used to them, just like I got used to Zach, and suddenly they weren't faceless meatshields that would keep me from dying, and when they started to die it felt like someone had punched me in the gut and if I could I'd just let them kill me if it meant they could all get out because I've started to care.
I don't know what's worse. That none of us are getting out alive or that there's not a damn thing I can do about it, no matter how hard I try.)