It's been three days since The Hill fell. I really thought it was an absolute sanctuary, an impenetrable land for the living. No one expected such a serge of lost souls to surround The Hill. It was almost as if they made a declaration to themselves, having finally tolerated our co-existence of violence and avoidance for long enough. All the people I cared about are lost once again, either walking among the lost souls or hiding in the basement of a small shack. I could look for them, but I feel no desire to. I already witnessed some of my fondest friends running to save their own hides and those who stood strong to protect our home succumb to the serge, with all their sacrifices being in vane. No, those who ran can rot and die of hunger for all I care. Of course, I'm no better. I walk away without a scratch on me all because I was positioned as sniper that day. Once I ran out of ammo, I could have charged down there with my club and knocked a few heads. The result would have been the same, however.
I tread lightly across the bloody grass, taking one last look at my home. There are too many memories that lurk in the street corners and benches of this place. The thoughts come rushing in with draggers, tormenting the realization that all that was good was lost. I see old friends walking aimlessly or what is left of them. I wish I could end them, to put them at ease, but there are far to many nearby and doing so would put me in danger. Would it really be so bad?
I'm walking out the highway entrance tonight, my first time leaving this place in 7 years. I've gathered enough food, water, and ammo for the trip from the storage house. Funny, no one thought to hide in there. I also found an old notebook to write in. I could bring my old journals with me, but those no longer matter. Paradise is lost.
- Jack's Diary
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