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Server time: 2018-07-21, 12:03 WE ARE RECRUITING

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K. Lott

A Ranger's Reckoning

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*You find a spiral-bound notepad; the cover is tattered, blood-stained and dirty. You turn to the first page and see a scribbled note written in pen with small drops of blood here and there on the face of the paper. The writing is barely legible; it is evident that this note was written with a very shaky hand.*

I don't really know why I'm writing this, there's no one in this fucking place that cares if I live or die; most don't know that I exist since I've kept mostly to myself, using my survival training so much that I'd almost forgotten what human interaction was. It doesn't matter, I guess I'm just clearing my conscience; maybe someone will learn something from this. I doubt it.

My name is Kyle. I've never told anyone my name. My callsign has been my name for so long that I don't remember how it feels to hear someone call me by MY name, not the Army's. I was, I am, a US Army Green Beret, sent here to recon and get intel on this 'zombie' situation. I had a team of 5 others who were loyal. Dedicated. Good men. They were all killed shortly after our mission was completed here. We collected their intel, saw the hell-on-earth that is Chernarus and, after 4 days of waiting for the Blackhawk, we realized that there was going to be no extraction. No way to get this information to the people back home. No. Way. Out.

My wife. My family; gone. My team; dead. My few friends that I had made here; scattered to the wind. The only thing I had left was my training and will to survive, but that, too, diminished. What's the point of living alone? I've thought about this question for months. I've decided. There isn't a point. To live in this place, constantly fighting for survival and being an outcast from most groups here because I am from a foreign land is not living, it's torture. And for what? These people don't care that my only goal was to help them and save the people back home as well with the intel that we gathered.

I've found a bottle of Irish whiskey in a house down the road from where I have camped for the past few days. Can you believe it? Whiskey in a place where Vodka is king? I don't care if it's not even Jameson-quality. Man, what I'd give for one more Kilbeggan and ginger in a scotch glass...with ice.

Well, this whiskey, whatever brand it is, will be my last friend in this world; besides my 9mm. The nightmare ends tonight.

I will not waste the last of my civility by drinking from the bottle. A metal cup from my mess kit will do just fine in the absence of a scotch glass.

See you on the other side.


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