Connor Blackwell, if you're from England you defiantly heard of the Blackwell Gazette. If you haven't you must not enjoy a quality paper. My father owned the family newspaper business for years. He was a great man, always keeping his stories correct and on the spot. Never growing them or shrinking them from what they truly were. He took me in as one of his lackeys when I was 14, I worked a 20 hour week, every week for years. Doing paperwork, filing information, finding new scoops. I would sometimes get the occasional story, to test out my reporting skills and if I could hold everything up to what it was truly, of course they never made it into the actual paper, my dad was honing me. On my 17th birthday, he gave me a press pass. Finally I was on the front lines, I would finally get to be the journalist, not his assistant! It felt amazing, to work on his level. Something I had read my entire life, I was finally able to create it myself. Those next two years were great, and then July of 2017 struck, once it went public my dad was all over it. He kept the stories coming out, any new information that came out of Chernarus, he picked up and evaluated thoroughly. He kept the public in mind when he sent out his articles, he wanted them prepared. But nothing can prepare you for global extinction. Once the infected escaped Chernarus, the newspapers stopped be read. People fled. We fled, my dad had friends and got me and him into a NATO squad, to report first hand the outbreak. It was something I never want to see again, seeing people flee from something that wanted you dead is awful. The things people would do to hide bites or their infected family member who just had the flu. The things NATO had to do to keep it from spreading, it all was so dark. That year, was a dark year. I lost my dad to the infection, he gave his life to write about it and even when blood gurgled from where his throat had been ripped open, he wrote the best he could, what he felt, what he heard, what the saw. His last line before total brain failure was how cold everything felt, and how is blood felt like it had stopped moving. Weeks have passed, the squad me and my father are traveling with decided to go AWOL. They had seen so much death, it was better to pack up in the humvee's and go. I quite reporting on the outbreak. There wasn't a point, it was global extinction of the human race, why write something no one would read. I instead started writing about the survivors. Their stories. Anyone we picked up, we would sit for as long as it took as they gave me a recap of all they can remembers since day one of the outbreak. I've been writing these stories for years, the NATO squad picking up and dropping off hitchhikers at will. I have seen interesting folk, but travelling Europe proved draining, and I wanted to walk in my own boots for awhile, finding my own story. They dropped me off on the Chernarus border and we said our goodbyes. I'm unsure if I'll ever meet them again, but I will remember their individual stories. And soon I will remember the stories of the inhabitants of Chernarus, and hopefully I'll start to write my own.