Log Day 1
The name's Richie, and if you are reading this, i'm either telling my tale, or my body has been found and you're reading this journal. A small bit about me. All through my boyhood and young manhood Richie Godsman had been in the habit of walking on Trunion Pike. I had been in the midst of the great open place on winter nights when it was covered with snow and only the moon looked down at him; I had been there in the fall when bleak winds blew and on summer evenings when the air vibrated with the song of insects. On the April morning I wanted to go there again, to walk again in the silence. I did walk to where the road dipped down by a little stream two miles from town and then turned and walked silently back again. When he got to Main Street clerks were sweeping the sidewalks before the stores. "Hey, you Richie. How does it feel to be going away?" they asked. The westbound train leaves Bristol at seven forty-five in the morning. Tom Little is conductor. His train runs from Edinburgh to where it connects with a great trunk line railroad with terminals in Brighton and London. Tom has what in railroad circles is called an "easy run." Every evening he returns to his family. In the fall and spring he spends his Sundays fishing in Lake Erie. He has a round red face and small blue eyes. He knows the people in the towns along his railroad better than a city man knows the people who live in his apartment building. Richie came down the little incline from the New Godsman House at seven o'clock. Tom Godsman carried his bag. The son had become taller than the father. On the station platform everyone shook the young man's hand. More than a dozen people waited about. Then they talked of their own affairs. Even Will Henderson, who was lazy and often slept until nine, had got out of bed. Richie was embarrassed. Gertrude Wilmot, a tall thin woman of fifty who worked in the Bristol post office, came along the station platform. She had never before paid any attention to Richie. Now she stopped and put out her hand. In two words she voiced what everyone felt. "Good luck," she said sharply and then turning went on her way. When the train came into the station Richie felt relieved. He scampered hurriedly aboard. Helen White came running along Main Street hoping to have a parting word with him, but he had found a seat and did not see her. When the train started Tom Little punched his ticket, grinned and, although he knew Richie well and knew on what adventure he was just setting out, made no comment. Tom had seen a thousand Richie Godsmans go out of their towns to the city. It was a commonplace enough incident with him. In the smoking car there was a man who had just invited Tom to go on a fishing trip to Sandusky Bay. He wanted to accept the invitation and talk over details. Richie glanced up and down the car to be sure no one was looking, then took out his pocket-book and counted his money. His mind was occupied with a desire not to appear green. Almost the last words his father had said to him concerned the matter of his behavior when he got to the city. "Be a sharp one," Tom Godsman had said. "Keep your eyes on your money. Be awake. That's the ticket. Don't let anyone think you're a greenhorn." After Richie counted his money he looked out of the window and was surprised to see that the train was still in Bristol. The young man, going out of his town to meet the adventure of life, began to think but he did not think of anything very big or dramatic. Things like his mother's death, his departure from Bristol, the uncertainty of his future life in the city, the serious and larger aspects of his life did not come into his mind. He thought of little things — Turk Smollet wheeling boards through the main street of his town in the morning, a tall woman, beautifully gowned, who had once stayed overnight at his father's hotel, Butch Wheeler the lamp lighter of Bristol hurrying through the streets on a summer evening and holding a torch in his hand, Helen White standing by a window in the Bristol post office and putting a stamp on an envelope. The young man's mind was carried away by his growing passion for dreams. One looking at him would not have thought him particularly sharp. With the recollection of little things occupying his mind he closed his eyes and leaned back in the car seat. He stayed that way for a long time and when he aroused himself and again looked out of the car window the town of Bristol had disappeared and his life there had become but a background on which to paint the dreams of his manhood. He knew it was time for him to move one and proceed his dream of helping people. He was meant to go to Chenarus during the riots in order to document them. His plane departed from London the day after he left his home town and he began to prepare. 4 soldiers in the UN went with him in order to maintain his protection but when the plane landed it was destroyed on impact, lucky he survived with minor injuries. That was fine but all of his travel papers had been destroyed as well as any recollection of the UN being apart of him and he was now trapped there. It was 2013 when this all occur and for the many years that he remained there it was as a doctor and bartender at night in order for him to stay alive and well fed. That's when the outbreak occurred and it cause RIchie to take shelter in his basement that was stockpiled until he ran out on April 4th, 2018, the same day he left from Bristol.
Adventure had begun in a new way entirely. I left my bar's basement as quickly as I could due to my lack of food and supplies in the shelter. To be completely honest I had though that I would be perfectly fine and able to leave due to it having been quite possibly a year since the infection began. I grabbed my Sporter 22. and walked around. I realized my entire town was empty, Kozlovka was a ghost town. I moved north along a nearby river watching how beautiful the landscape was until I saw the first sign of life. 6 men were walking down what seemed to be a ruined street. I talked and asked them what was going on, but they didn't respond, instead they stopped moving and screamed. I backed away as quick as I could and began to run, they were infected. I knew that it was going to be a pain to escape what could possibly be infected. I turned a corner and grabbed an axe out of some wood. Was I going to break an oath of killing innocents so soon. I swung 1,2,3,4,5 times until all of the infected had fallen dead or unconscious. I threw down the axe and Gagged until I eventually threw up. I broke the promise I made when I signed into the United Nations. Too bad I'm not a member of the Military anymore, if the UN even existed anymore. I traveled to Zelenegorsk as quickly as I could in order for maybe a government of some sort, only to find none and a massive heap of bodies found outside of the main
shopping center, it appeared to be a pre-infection riot or possibly a last stand for some survivors, I guess i'll never find out. I looted the nearby military base and outpost inside of the city only to be attacked by a pack of wolves or wild dogs it was hard to tell. They had just recently consumed a body of someone who was unfortunate. They charged me and with speed I pulled a kitchen knife I had taken from one of the houses nearby and stabbed what seemed to be their pack leader causing the remaining wolves to scatter. I skinned the wolf, to the best I could which wasn't good at all, and left the base with some medical supplies. That's when I finally ran into someone who wasn't a wolf or infected. His name I may never know, but I caught him running from a small horde of infected. I decided to help and with a suppressor on my Sporter, I opened fire one by one killing all of the infected. Once they were gone, the man gave me a nod, and went on his way. I don't think I'll see him any time soon. For now I'll call him Coward. I began to ponder, "What the hell is going on," and decided to take a stroll further south thinking maybe its better down there. After arriving at the Balota airfield and discovering that it is completely empty, I finally came to the realization, that it may be over for this country. I came here now 5 years ago hoping to just take photos of the civil riots occurring across South Zagoria. Instead I was shot down, if it wasn't for those rebels, I may not be in this mess. Still, I have a duty to do, document as much of this war on infections as I can. So I moved to the east, past Cherno, and into Electro. I looted for a bit and managed to get a large upgrade from this dinky little 22. I now had a 7.62 Mosin. I remember it looked exactly like it was from any TV show. Now I got to actually hold one, and I was excited. That's when I met up with this man Jack, a former U.S pilot. We traveled together for some time and moved toward Kamyshovo. That when super fearfully I found something I wish that I had never seen. A massacre, a massacre of public transport and endurance. This was grotesque, and Jack, he couldn't handle it. I watched a
grown many cry, groan, vomit, and be broken. I had not seen anything like this either and almost gave into it myself. It was beginning to get late, and so Jack and I set up camp for the night. We moved to the woods and began to start a campfire. I watched him mop around as I worked diligently. Later that night, Jack had passed away due to overexertion and what had appeared to be stress. I had lost quite possibly the only person I could trust in this shithole. I didn't let it bother me for it was one death of many that I was likely to encounter. I began to get some sleep and woke up the next day hoping for an amazing day. Even when it will be doubtful.