A/N: This is a collection of short stories all based in a post-apocalyptic world. Hope you enjoy it!
Friday, October 2nd 2093
There are nine of us left. We've written to the general back at base many a time, yet we're still awaiting a response. The floor gets colder each night, Johnson caught pneumonia a couple of days ago- right after the final battle. He's on the verge of death, so I guess I should really say eight of us.
Henry constantly reads the letter he got from his little girl, he sleeps with it under his pillow. I hear soft sniffles at night from Carey, he's the only one who knows how badly this is going for us, well, the only one who wants to admit it.
Aaron doesn't talk anymore, he stares at the flap in our tent, his body as still as a statue with his gun clutched in his tight grips. He hasn't slept in three days, we have to hold him down and force him to eat, or he'll die just like Adam. He doesn't seem to care.
Felix, well, I don't know what to say about him. I think perhaps he's lost his mind. He prowls around the tent all day long, muttering nonsense to himself, yesterday he tried to go outside. The day before that he tried to shoot Riley in the head- his gun wasn't loaded, thank God. And not too long ago, in the morning, I think- I can't tell any more, I'm losing my sense of time- he started carving Kreature runes into his skin, his blood froze over as it hit the ground. It's still there, glistening in the ground as a constant reminder of the fact that we're all going to die.
Riley clutches his bible to his chest and constantly mutters in Latin as he holds his rosary, he's been scared shitless since Felix tried to kill him. Constantine never opens his eyes, his claustrophobia is finally starting to break him. He made an attempt to get away yesterday by slitting his wrists, we tied them up as soon as we saw, but the ice wind froze the wet cloth and now we can't take it off or his skin will come off too.
Jeffrey's the only one who seems alright. He's the only one I can talk to without being scared.
We ran out of food yesterday. Our final meal being moldy bread and what I think, hope was butter. I think I'm starting to fade out, my skin is cracked in so many different places I can't hold to stare at my reflection. My toes are freezing over, it's as if they're being gnawed at by unseen monsters that come out at night, but nothing's bad as the fear.
The fear overpowers all of us, it's the only thing keeping us grounded, it's the only thing forcing us to survive. The fear keeps our eyes open and our guns loaded, it keeps us from feeling the pain we undergo with each shaky breath we take.
I've got to go- I can hear footsteps from outside.