It was dark.
The only light came from the half open window in the corner, the breeze filtering through the shredded screen that once kept the bugs out of the room. The (at one point) beautiful patterned wallpaper had darkened and was peeling in several places, revealing the damp wall behind it.
The room itself was obviously once an office. Papers were scattered around the rotting wooden floorboards, a large oak desk by the window. On it was a framed, graying photo of a smiling family. Two children, a boy and a girl, were crouched beside a small pond. The boy was slightly older than the other, his hair hanging in his face. He didn't look like the rest of the family, probably a friend of theirs. The girl was scowling at the camera slightly, her lips pursed in a pout.
Above him was a beaming woman with her bangs in her green eyes. Beside her was a man, assumed to be the husband of the family. He had on a ball cap of a forgotten baseball team, and an amused smile grazed his features. His hand rested on the little girl's head where he was obviously ruffling her hair before the photo was taken.
The room would have been considered average, if it weren't for the large recorder that had been hastily plopped down on the floor and left there. Dust coated the top, and it looked like a couple of pieces were missing. As if by magic, a small whirring noise sounded from the machine, and it began to play.
"I don't even know what to say."
It was a woman, her voice strained and tired. There was a sigh, followed by a rustling noise as if the person recording was shifting. "My name is Delilah Blay, I'm 26 years old. Beside me is Syrus Ley, 28." There was an instant reply. "I can speak for myself, thank you."
The first person, Delilah, snorted. "Not now, Sy." There was more shuffling, followed by, "I'm sorry, 'Lilah, but I just…." Syrus trailed off, and it was silent before Delilah responded.
"I know."
"If you're listening to this, congratulations. You've survived the zombie apocalypse this far, and somehow, you ended up in my dad's old office in the process." It was silent, as though this Delilah person was thinking of how to word her next sentence.
"We're recording this to document our journey so far." Syrus laughed. "Where do we begin?" He asked, and you could almost feel him roll his eyes. He chuckled bitterly, and the machine spluttered for a moment before continuing with the recording.
"I guess it all started when Daryl Dixon shot me."
"Daryl Dixon, the annoying redneck," Syrus snorted, "I can't believe he thought you were a dead one." Delilah hummed grimly. "Admit it, though. We'd be dead if he hadn't found me."
It was silent. The machine froze once more, and it was hard to make out the next few words said. When it was possible to make out the words, Syrus's reply was dying out, and Delilah spoke again.
"I guess... I guess I'm scared. We're scared. Gotta document everything so people know what we've done... So they know what we've been through. So listen carefully, okay? Please..."
The recorder froze once more. The buzzing that had filled the room briefly came to an abrupt halt, and it was silent once more.
In the bottom drawer of the desk sat a second tape.