"This is a document

to prove that I was here"

My name is Gregory Atlus. And this is a document of my journey through Hell on Earth.

At the time of this writing, I'm nineteen years of age, and I'm someone who has a rather intimate knowledge of what's been happening across the world in the past few weeks. The fact that this plague of walking death has finally spread to a global scale wasn't something that I wasn't ready for. I'd hoped my years of chasing down answers would somehow give me the tools I needed to expose this danger to the world and prepare them for the dark clouds on the horizon. Safe to say, I wasn't able to do so, and this leaves me with an overwhelming sense of disappointment with myself.

Admittedly, my original motivation for seeking reason for what I was forced to endure as a nine year old boy was far simpler than that of some grandeur idea of saving the world. I wanted to know what the hell I had just lived through, and I wanted to know what became of a loved one. But with each passing year my curiosity only deepened, and as I began to further understand the world around me I was able to slowly peel away layer after layer of the shroud which kept the truth a mystery to me. Only when I had finally reached the center of it all did I learn the horrific reality of the shambling corpses which cover the world today;

There were no answers. Nobody knew what they were, or where they came from. Not even at the highest levels of the world government.

In the following pages, you'll read everything I've learned about and witnessed over the past nine years. How an American boy ended up in Japan, how he survived a similar outbreak once before, and how he was able to blow the lid off a conspiracy that ended up not existing. My story is an unbelievable one, no doubt. But then again, if you can't wrap your head around my words then you probably couldn't wrap your head around the idea of the living dead, either.

Clicking the small button atop his pen once, Gregory closed the small notepad he was writing in and set it down on the park bench he was perched upon.

"Huh. Not a bad foreword if I do say so myself" he muttered aloud before tucking the pen in to a shirt pocket. "Shame nobody will ever read this crap."

Slowly his head swiveled from one side to the other, eyes carefully scanning the rather tranquil public park for signs of activity. In spite of the Hell that surrounded him on a day to day basis, Greg was certainly the type to still stop and enjoy a moment like this every now and again. For some reason he much preferred to sit on the back rest of the bench with his feet on the actual seat, probably because the added foot or so of height allowed him to get a better view about him. Or, maybe he was just crazy and he thought he could somehow see things a little clearer from up here. Thankfully, however, aside from the stray shambling figure hundreds of yards away beyond the park gates, not a whole lot was going on. For now, a moment of safety.

Gregory Atlus could best be described as an athletic looking fellow. Standing at an inch or two shy of six feet tall, his physical build suggested that he was a good sprinter, but he probably wouldn't be punching his way through brick walls any time soon. Greg's facial features instantly showed that he wasn't of Japanese decent; he was, in fact, an American born boy, both of his parents being able to trace their ancestry back to American settlers of the 1700's. His complexion was a little on the pale side, his brown eyes always having a tired and worn down look about them. Greg kept his jet black hair short and neat, the front of his hair coming up in to a neat little puffed spike. He also liked to grow his sideburns out and allow a full, neatly groomed chin-strap to frame his face. His chin, however, wasn't as neatly trimmed, a small puffy goatee always present.

Mister Atlus made it a point to raid at least one high end retailer for some fresh threads during his travels. Greg had always figured that should worst come to worst, he'd rather his corpse be an incredibly fashionable one instead of one dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt. He wore a long sleeve black button down shirt with both sleeves tugged up above his elbows. The shirt wore the signature of some (apparently) well known designer that Greg had never heard of, and it was buttoned all the way up save for the top button or two. It remained un-tucked, the shirt doing a good job of hiding the two objects that were attached to his belt; a small silver flask to his right, and on the left, four fully-loaded magazines for his Ruger-made SR1911 model handgun. His handgun was holstered in a police-style chest holster that was worn openly, the grip always in easy reach for Greg whenever the situation called for it. From the waist down Greg wore, again, designer jeans with some designer's name on it and a hefty price tag. They fit rather comfortably, the dark denim having small series of cuts up and down them... both caused by being roughed up, and apparently, because fashion. At his feet were some rather comfortable running shoes in black. The choice of shoe seemed to clash with the rest of his motif, but if there was one thing Greg wasn't willing to compromise on, it was being fleet-footed.

A rather strong and warm breeze blew through the park, causing the pages of Greg's small journal to flutter open, his hand quickly going down to stop the book from going anywhere. With a bit of reluctance he decided it was best not to rest on his laurels and to continue on his journey. Looking up to the sky, Greg could see that daylight was beginning to fade. By Greg's general rules of survival, he'd prefer to either find shelter or continue traveling at a high rate of speed once the sun went down. For the second option, Greg made it a point to 'borrow' a motorcycle fit for the job from a small importer he came upon during his journey.

Parked beside the park bench was a Triumph Tiger 800XC, a motorcycle that was purpose built to maneuver over harsh terrain while carrying a sufficient amount of luggage. Being able to navigate a post-apocalyptic urban landscape as well as crossing mountain trails and small rivers quickly was key to surviving in this new, hostile world. Greg was sure to stash his journal in to one of the large, metal cases mounted on either side of the bike before climbing up upon the behemoth of a motorcycle and getting comfortable. Turning the key and bringing the bike to life, Greg was rather thankful that this machine was particularly quiet with it's factory exhaust fitted. It was much unlike the loud, quick dirt bikes he often rode as a teenager.

Still, the hum of the engine would be sure to attract attention from something, so it was important not to dawdle. His brown eyes darted down to a map he had taped to the gas tank and found his location quickly. After only a few seconds of studying, Greg had his next destination in mind, and wasted no time clicking the bike in to gear and navigating his way out of the park. Riding over the rolling hills of unusually long grass and out one of the open gates, once he hit asphalt Greg slid the throttle wide open and shot down the open road ahead of him. The staggering undead that littered the streets weren't nearly nimble or numerous enough to catch something so fast.