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Macro Sparrow - RMNC hand book.

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This isn't how we make it out in the end. This isn't about how we will hold our loved ones again. No. All of this. The books and journals I have found. The stories I have read. They don't, and won't, lead to a happy ending. Because we all have a story to tell about this place. This place where the dead rise from the ground after being shot through the chest. This place where people back stab and rob just for a can of food. And every story, is about how we die. This story is my one. Macro Sparrow. Lieutenant of the Royal Marines Navy Commandos, 42nd Regiment.

And this, is how I die.

Day 8

Finally found a damn pen! It's harder to find one of these fuckers than it is a can of food. Found this one laying on the table next to a Zed. She was old. In her 80s. She was missing her legs. Must have been eaten before she turned. I paid a bullet for this pen, I wasn't going to leave her on a chair, moaning and scraping around. Anyway, I can finally fill out my hand book. Shouldn't be too hard. I have plenty to say, plenty to leave behind for the next unlucky fucker who finds this. 8 days I have been out here. Down to 64 rounds. 15 on back up with my M9. Should last me. I'm not the only one around here. People are actually organizing things around this hell hole. There is a bar up north! A fucking bar! Sure, they have a spot light and guns pointing at you when you walk to the door but, it's worth it for a drink and people to talk to. I came from there last night. I stayed one night there. They were happy letting me stay there with them. The people who run is are called the CLF I think. Or CDF. Something like that. They let me in, I showed my passport, they saw I was British, they turned their noses up slightly but let me in. Most of them are from around here, so I can understand why they wouldn't be too fond of the people who were covering the people who were bombing them not too long ago. Funny really, 8 days ago I was shitting on a nice boat and playing golf off the starboard bow. Now I'm shitting in a bush and playing doggie with a bunch of dead things. Anyway, the people at this bar took me in. They told stories of people who they don't like by the seems of it. SVS or something like that. According to them, these people rob survivors and shoot anyone they wish. I'm not one for picking sides, but if you ask me, there should only be two 'clans'. The walking fucking dead and the people who should be shooting them. It was a nice night in all, met some nice people and they said I was welcome there any time. I didn't want to over stay my welcome or get too deep into the 'clan' that run the place so I left before sun rise. And now I'm here, it's around 11:35 PM now. I'm laying here in a make shift tent in the middle of ass fuck no where. Wonder if I will be eaten tonight. Shouldn't be. I have set sound traps around the tree I'm under and I'm sleeping with my gun. Any Zed comes within 15 meters to me, the pans behind me with clang together and I will be up and running. I will write the next time I'm free and have a pen. If you find this on me or someone else, do your best to get it out of here. Hopefully it will be more full if you find it, and you will know who I am and who it should be given to, given the event this shit storm ever goes away. Good night. Try not to get eaten Macro.

-Day 8. Macro Sparrow.

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