• Journal Entry No. 1 - 12/21/12 @ 10:32 pm - Judgment Day + Short Story:
    Barack Obama's Death This is it, Judgment Day. I knew this damned day would come soon enough, but I had no idea it would be so soon! Ever since my infatuation with my love, Serena Chirillo, it's begun to pass by in a blinding, incomprehensible blur. She made me feel like an actual person. Sure, we had our fights, and we had our separations, but what teenage couple doesn't? Ah, to hell with all the past grievances and bull, it was the most blissful three and a half years of my life.

    To prevent myself from dragging too much, I might as well get to the point of my writing of this entry. It's the time. The Mayan-prophecised time. It wasn't like what they were planning, I'm guessing. If I recall right, it meant that a great change was going to take place when their calandar ended. No one, save the "fanatics" at the zombie survival wiki could have guessed this, and, hell, not even seventy percent of them, either. I currently sit, with my survival group of friends, and my love, Serena. We currently have the entire basement boarded up. There's only one way out, and because of our underground precautions, none of the walking dead can get in, or out, once we blow it.

    But that's if they even get in.

    We have plenty of weapons, food, and water for what seems like forever. Taking into consideration our teenage years, however, it's probably only about three months, even if we ration it. For now, however, we have a wind-charged survival radio, a solar-powered television, and a variety of entertainment - board games to video games.

    As of now, we saw the current news station, Fox News, as they tried to gain access by helicopter to interview the president. Subsequently, we got an excellent view of the carnage that is our foe. We saw Barack Obama get his a** handed to him by at least a thousand zombies. He was torn apart on national news. If that doesn't screw morale, we're some kind of machine race.

    *Interuption of Entry*

    Barack Obama, President of the United States of America, Commander in Chief of the military, and economic conservative democrat, sat in his office, hands pressed to his temples in frustration. He was worried; worried for several reasons: One, the stock market, the very thing he promised in his election campaign to rebuild, had finally collapsed because of his risky plan. It had officially ******** up the entire economy of the United States, leaving it at a perfect stand-still. The dollar bill, to every other country, once word got out, was virtually nothing. Second, he was worried about the past few day's events. Over the course of the past few days, according to a Confidential file on his desk, stated that an escaped "mental" patient from a Top Secret Government testing facility had escaped on the tenth.

    For the second issue, the patient had been treated with some kind of new biological weapon from the Johnson and Johnson pharmacutical research company, said to the public as a "miracle cure for cancer." The President knew, however, that this was actually a biological weapon to make the enemy in war go insane and destroy itself from the inside out. It was still in its beginning stages, and it had no cure. It was a virus that caused a mental, contagious insanity that left a person with a reduced system movement. The heart virtually stops, leaving it immune to infra-red sensors. Its nervous system basically deteriorates to the point of death. The only things left alive keep the body moving. The resperatory system slows to a sluggish two breathes required per minute. This dramatic slow down also turns the blood into its viscous, brown, clotted version. It maintains enough oxygen to allow a shambling, stumbling walk. From a crainial deterioration comes the loss of all emotion, and pain. The only thing remaining is a marginal logical reasoning and instinct to keep the body alive. The entire transformation basically turns the person infected into a zombie.

    When hurt, the beasts do not stop moving unless something major is hit, and even then it takes a time for it to die due to the dramatic slow down of the body's systems. The only sound allowed out of the body after the deterioration of the resperatory system is a long, drolling moan. The cerebrum of the brain is not destroyed by the virus, but is turned back into the animal it once was by de-evolution. This infuriates the instinct to survive, and at the same time increases the natural predation that humans have. It also effectively transforms the mind into a collective consciousness with any of the other monsters within a seven mile radius. Much like an anthill.

    A weapon so powerful that it transforms a human into a shambling, deadly animal that feels no pain was instantly vetoed by the President, but Congress shoved it through anyway. Bastards, thought the President. Just makes more trouble for me. Removing his fingers from his temples, he angrily shoved the file into the small garbage can next to his desk. The act made him feel slightly better, and he latched onto the hope. Steeling himself, he flipped on the surveillance cameras on the grounds. What he saw he hadn't prepared for. In just eleven short days, the virus had spread, by bite wound, to almost sixty percent of the country. Now, almost a hundred of the beasts were pounding at the gates of the White House. He could tell because the Secret Service police force that guarded him had left many holes in the monster's hide, and the viscous fluid oozed out of the wounds.

    The President watched, dumbfounded, as the beasts took the bullets and continued pounding on the gate, stepping over their dead brothers, unaverted. Even more joined in the attack. His pager went off, and Obama almost flew out of his chair. Taking a deep breath, he answered it and tranferred the call to his phone. Picking up the line, he asked, in as formal a tone he could muster at that moment, "Yes?"

    "Mr. President!" the voice said on the other line. It was Davis, leader of the White House regimen of the Secret Service. "Are you safe? We have some kind of hellish monsters outside. Not to worry you, sir, but we've unloaded almost all of our immediate ammo into them, and they just keep coming! Whatever the hell it is, I swear it's the demons of hell for the apocalypse!" His voice was shaken, but stout and faithful in his leader's judgment.

    Obama recalled that he wasn't supposed to disclose any information from the file folder to anyone, including his trusted Secret Service police, he said, "Just keep them outside the grounds. We'll get help soon." His voice cracked in the middle of his sentence, but he swallowed the lump in his throat.

    "Yessir," the voice sounded dispondent, but it hung up and a few shots were heard just outside the President's office.

    Standing and wanting to help, Obama fixed his suit and marched out of his office. The Secret Service was too preoccupied with the zombies trying to batter down the gates to notice the President walking down the grounds. Obama stopped several meters from the gate and stared directly at the lead zombie. Its left eye was gouged out, and a deep chunk of his cheek was missing. He moaned in an eerie way that made the President's skin crawl.

    Looking to the side, Obama saw a reporter helicopter hovering just above the zombies. It slid through the air and touched down directly in front of the President. Obama's face was white. He knew they weren't going to leave without stout answers, and he was prepared with the lie that the file folder told him. A small bit of counscience hit him, but he shoved it down, bit his lip, and prepared to lie on national television. Just as the reporters were dropping out of the still-running helicoper, however, a deafening clang sounded just behind it. The ornate iron gate of the White House toppled over and struck the helicopter's still-turning rotors. The force caused the reporters to fly forward, covering their heads and screaming as the helicopter tilted dangerously toward the gate, scraping the grounds and driving it into a deadly maelstromed circle. Turf and dirt flew in all directions, and the helicopter careened into the wall, destroying part of it and widening the hole from the gate. Altough it crushed several of the monsters, the sheer number of them overwhelmed the last of the motor's strength, and the helicopter lay still.

    Zombies swarmed around it. Shambling forward. Some with holes in their heads, chests, bodies, legs. One reporter, a brave lad with brown-blonde hair, lifted his camera with shaking hands and shone it directly at the President, then back to the horde of zombies slowly advancing upon them. As if trained for it, the reporter took a vantage point, holding the President back. With a last shove in the direction of the zombies, he screamed, "You ******** us all, man! This is your fault! All your fault!"

    The President tried to plead, tried to reason with the boy, but, being weak from long nights and stress, he was unable to fight against him. Obama fell back into a horde of the zombies, who latched onto him with iron-like grip. The President struggled and kicked, fighting as vehemently as his body would allow, but to no avail.

    The first zombie bit into his arm, and he screamed in pain, wrenching one way, then another, as more and more bites began to take shape on his body.

    It didn't take long for the weak President to die. Every moment was captured on national television by the brown-haired reporter before the White House fell. No one ever found out what happened to him, but the verdict was clear: The apocalypse had begun.

    *Journal Resume*

    Poor President Obama. He deserved no better, but I know that it wasn't his fault. Congress always pushes things past the President.

    By the by, the National Guard has been called, and they're currently trying to qwell a twelve-day zombiefied America. Good luck to them. If they do stop it, I'll be surprised, and not relieved. This is what my friends and I have trained for all our lives, and now it's happening. We have to prove that we can survive. A just hope enough people will be left to actually repopulate . . .

    Here's the roster that we have now:

    Alex Collinge

    Anthony Miskolci (me)

    Brice Martinez

    Christine Johnson (Vincent's Girlfriend

    Kevin Strawther (Kev)

    Rhiannon Bunney (Alex's Girlfriend)

    Richard Garcia (Ricky, my cousin)

    Serena Chirillo (My girlfriend <3)

    Sammi Stein (Ricky's girlfriend)

    Vincnt Castilow (Vince)

    In a pinch, if we can use the current group, and by some kind of bad luck, we're literally the only ones left, we can repopluate, but not without a possible inter-breeding and retardation later in the line. I hope we get more people. For now, we're just going to keep up with news and radio, drown out the moans of the zombies trying to get in, and just live.

    . . . Watch and Wait . . .