Day…..
1536
Date….
October 17, 2024
Base…. Old county prison in some nameless, shitsplat town in the North Eastern Quadrant of the New American Liberation Union
Rations………….
Scarce
Ammunition…….
Low
Morale……………
Morose
They call me Phoenix. I don't remember what I was called before that, but what does it matter? That girl died in the fire that Molotov pulled me out of. A fire in a church caused by the innumerable amount of prayer candles lit within. Some people believe that it's proof that God has abandoned us all. I just find it ironic.
Robert drew the short straw for the week. It's a mark of just how bad things have gotten that no one cried this time, except his wife. And, hell, did she cry. But you would too if the only person left in the world who was helping you retain your sanity was drawn to be this week's martyr. So we had to kill her as well. Well, that's now two less mouths to feed, and the pair of them were able to feed twice as many mouths. I'm going to miss Robby. He was a good shot.
This place reeks of death. And it's not just the smell of the decaying mass of corpses piling outside our boarded doors, nor even their stale, decrepit breath seeping through the cracks with their every moan. It's the rank, foul odor that lingers after every solemn word, at the bottom of every empty food can, and in the final fumes of every used fuel canister. It's the stink of the vestiges of our hope, rotting away.
There aren't many of us left now. Maybe a dozen, I don't know. I don't like knowing just how much our numbers have dwindled; knowing how many of them are gone just so the rest of us could attempt to endure a few more days of this living horror movie. If hiding out in an old prison with no possible chance of ever escaping alive could be considered living. I now know what the prisons who were once sentenced here must have felt like, confined in these cold, stone cells. But at least they knew when their time would be up. At least they could hope for a reprieve. At least they knew that their worst possible fate was dangling on the gallows in the courtyard, with the simple fear that their neck wouldn't snap with the drop. Lucky bastards.
Winter's coming up, and we all know that none of us are making it through this one. Maybe I'll draw the short straw next week. A quick chop to the throat isn't such a bad way to go. And I'd never have to see it coming. I could just close my eyes and pray. Pray that the gates of hell have finally reopened so that I won't have to spend my eternity roaming aimlessly in this one.