4/25/XXXX • Day 103

Journal, It is now day 103 in this hellish wasteland. I suppose I have it better than some of the other survivors I’ve come across, with Peak by my side and a roof over my head. Still, it’s not easy. I can tell that this train car won’t last all too much longer. It was old from the start, but the constant attacks from the zombies and the odd weather patterns have caused it to deteriorate much faster than I would’ve hoped. The wood I’ve been using to cover the windows is unfit to be used anymore, just barely enough for kindling in the fire. I’ll have to get more soon. Rain keeps coming in through the cracked windows, and the wind from the storm blew that one newspaper onto the floor. I’ve read that paper so much I think I can recite it from memory. There’s a leak in the ceiling, and it’s certainly a cold night. But, the fire is keeping me warm, and as long as I can hear Peak’s soft breathing I won’t be alone.

I wonder what ever happened to the military? I heard on my radio that they would check the area for survivors, but I haven’t seen any soldiers, nor heard a single word of them. I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but I’m starting to suspect something that makes my heart sink.

It’s been awhile since I saw another survivor, as well. Last time I believe it was the first of this month. I had ran into him while scoping the area. He didn’t seem in much mood to fight; rather, he instead traded me a few cans of food for my extra dagger. Not much of an exchange, but it’s nice to see that there’s still some good left in the world.

Daily Reminder: Barricade train door before you go to sleep.

I can’t really think of much else to write for today, so I suppose this wraps up today’s entry.

-Mike

“I’m not doing it. No way.”

“You don’t have a choice. It’s a simple exchange: to atone for sin you must spend a day in Hell.” The elevator operator, who’s name tag I notice reads “Nathen” says with a shrug of his black cloaked shoulders. “But it wasn’t even my fault! It was his!” I respond angrily, thrusting my finger in the direction of Rial. The dark haired boy’s eyes glint and he focuses his red pupils on me. “It was your decision to make the deal, Pierce.” “But it was you whole killed them!” I shout, feeling frustration bubble up in my chest like rising lava. “I don’t care which one of you did it.” Nathen interrupts. “It’s God’s word that you atone. And no matter how much you blame the other, you still share the same physical body.” He nods at Rial’s translucent figure. Rial growls. Turning his head away from us, he says, “So what you’re saying is that both of us are stuck in Hell for a day, since this dipshit-“ he motions at me, “-got us both killed.” “Precisely, though from what I witnessed I believe it was your fault.” Nathen responds, a smirk forming on his scarred face. His eyes are covered by the shadowy hood of his cloak, but I can still feel them staring right at Rial. I suddenly feel Rial’s offense like a wave. Anger and humiliation overtake him. I realize I need to stop him before he snaps again...! “Rial, don’t-“ I start, but he cuts me off. “Stay out of my emotions, Pierce!” he yells, spinning around and glaring at me. “You have no right to tell me what to do! If your stupid ritual hadn’t gone wrong, maybe both of us wouldn’t be in this situation!” “Rial, I...” I swallow, suddenly nervous.

(I didn’t feel like writing anything else, sorry.)

Everything started the day a tall stone gate appeared in the middle of Manhattan. It stood as tall as a small building, it’s pillars as thick as a school bus. Wrapped around these pillars were vines unnaturally green that emitted a thin purple mist. And inside this gateway was a translucent purple screen. Nobody quite knew what to do about it. Nobody dared to enter, of course. Fear of the unknown, I supposed as I stepped out onto the cold city streets to find a large crowd of people surrounding the gate yet keeping at least a few yards distance. I pushed my way to the front of the crowd, examining the gate along with the bystanders. It seemed odd already, but it was even more unordinary when a short man stepped out through the screen. He had a long grey beard, and was draped in a black cloak, embroidered with gold, that trailed along the dirty asphalt as he walked. He wielded a long staff made of pure obsidian — or perhaps black opal — with a glowing purple jewel resting atop. A silence fell over the crowd watching as we watched more people walk out: a girl with pointed ears, a boy with two fireballs hovering over his shoulders, strange animal hybrids that appeared to be combinations of cats and what I only assumed to be dragons. The group seemed to go on forever, until at last the final person stepped through and the purple screen evaporated into fine mist and disappeared into the dawn. The first man, the one with the tall staff, glanced around at the crowd of bystanders. A shadow covered his eyes, but a great shiver ran down my spine as I saw the weirdly wicked smile on his wrinkled face. A businessman in our crowd, Richard Yates, stepped forward until he was only a few feet away from the old man. “Who are you?” He asked, his voice just loud enough for me to hear. The old man hesitated, then spoke, voice booming. “I am Aldaren the Wise. I hold the power of immortality and all knowledge.” “That’s not possible!” Someone in the crowd piped up. “Is it?” Aldaren pointed a long finger at the boy next to me. “You.” The boy flinched slightly. “Your name is Ryan Rivera. You are a male, nineteen years of age, and a student in college. You aspire to be a lawyer once you graduate.” Everyone turned to Ryan in anticipation. “He-he’s right...” Ryan said simply. The crowd went into an uproar. “Silence!” Aldaren shouted. “In our world, magic is a common trait. We have come here simply to see what the world of no magic is like, and to see if someone like us, one with exceptional magical ability, was here. Someone like...” He scanned the crowd, then turned to the left and pointed a long, bony finger right at me. I felt my heart jump. I could feel his eyes staring into my very soul. “You.”

A candle. A candle is small in its stature. It is a small cylinder of wax. Sometimes it can be in the shape of a square. Or perhaps even a triangle. A candle can be any color. It can be red. Blue. Green. Or even pink. Their wicks stand small but mighty as they hold the power to alight even the largest of flames. They bend with the pressure of the fire as death is inevitable even to wicks. From the wick burns a fire with both the power of life and death engulfed in its warm embrace. It can light up a room. It can warm a cold family. It can cook food that would be otherwise inedible. But it also holds death. It can burn buildings to the ground with nothing left but ashes. It can heat a world so much that they all melt away. It can char objects to a crisp. And how shocking it is that a simple candle such a small plain cylinder could hold such an ability. For the fire that burns inside this simple unassuming candle. Why that flame holds the power of destroy the world.

But then again it’s only a candle. How much harm could it possibly do?

It was one night. Two friends, hand in hand, staring out over the crumbling world from the rooftop which they were perched. Three hours left until the world they had always known came to an end. Four words spoken: “So, this is it. “ Five seconds of pure silence. Six words came from the second friend: “I’m going to miss all this.” Seven minutes pass. Eight minutes. Nine. Ten. Tick, tock. Eleven minutes remaining before the world’s destruction. Twelve words, six from each friend: “I’m going to miss you, too.”

Twelve was the last number before darkness consumed the Earth. And the world went silent.

Tick, tock.