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The Journals of Dr. Stone


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Dr Stone... Dr Stone. I'm not so sure anymore. I've been in this godforsaken land for two awful days. I have not helped a man, woman nor child since I first came here. Last night I and another survivor were savaging for supplies at some kind of airstrip, north of Krasnostav. We had 50 Zombies on our tail as soon as we got there. With my judgement tainted by fear I ran into a long, low building with only one entrance. I was shooting for my life with a small, Russian handgun. I saw a big rifle on the floor. It was made of metal, with a stock of dark wood. Beside it there lay 3 clips. I picked it up swiftly and held down the trigger. I barely knew what I was doing. Some of the zombies were killed, I can remember running out of the building into a control tower about 50 meters away. I ran up there with my companion, all we could do was shot at the zombies trying to get to us. As she shot the last Zombie running towards her another one hit her in the side. He died there, defending himself. I ran for a solid 5 minutes, just running away from there. I looked at the rifle in my strong hands. It was a Russian-made RPK. A lovely weapon which had saved my life.

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