[A survivor enters a run-down home in the village of Sosnovka, Chernarus. His search for anything useful turns up empty. As one last check in his sweep of the bedroom, the survivor peeks under the bed. He examines a small leather-bound book, its cover weathered and spine frayed -- "The Picture of Dorian Gray," it read. It must have been well used even before the outbreak. As the survivor flips through the pages, he notices something odd about the typeface. A closer look reveals that the pages' margins are filled with notes, sketches, and occasional drops of blood. This is not Dorian Gray, it is a journal. The pencil marks are faded and the pages waterlogged, scarred by the merciless Chernarussian skies. A cackle of thunder calls out and light rain begins singing its all-too-familiar pitter-pat at the roof and against the windows. The survivor gets comfortable in the bed and turns back to the beginning. He leans to the left to avoid the drips leaking through the ceiling and begins to read...]
This book is all I have left. My family is dead. My friends are God knows where. We came to Chernarus looking for a cure to the infection, but I think I'm the only one left. I remember seeing the coast in the distance before the storm set in. The captain said we'd make it--at least he was right about one of us. I haven't seen anyone else yet. I can't be the only one...
My stomach is going to eat me alive if I don't find food fast. At first I hesitated to walk around other people's houses. It felt like stealing, or maybe disrespect. I called out to see if anyone was inside. My shouting got the attention of two zombies that must have been lurking a block or two away. Knocked one out and made it inside before the other could get too close. Trespassing is a part of life in the apocolypse, I guess. Got bit in the wrist, used my shirt to bandage it up. I won't get infected, that was one of the reasons I joined this expedition. Hurts like hell, though. Good thing it wasn't my writing arm, I'd go insane with my thoughts trapped in my head. Not like it matters. Infected or not I'm bound to become one of them eventually. There's a rotten orange on the table, I never thought I'd crave eating garbage. Maybe the rest of the house has something I can use.
[The survivor looks up. A ray of sunshine warms his feet and the birds resume their songs. His brief R&R is cut short but the crack of a gunshot in the distance. Time to move.]
Inspired by The_Testificate's post.
In intend to add to this 'journal' as I play from the point of view of the writer. Comments and critiques are welcome, thanks for reading!