Duration: 11:08

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Survivor's log, Entry #07:

I've lost track of the number of days we've been on this journey... all our destinations seem to bleed together, merely punctuated by horrible twists of fate that no longer seem to faze me as things go from bad to worse.

Met a curious traveler with a chainsaw who called himself an "Action Hero"... said he'd teach me how to fire weapons without expending ammunition sometimes in exchange for a The King's ransom of cash. I seriously question the sanity of this fellow, assuming he merely lost track of his ammunition count in the adrenaline rush... some people are just junkies, I guess. No, no, friend! It's most assuredly NOT "groovy"!

We're out of food. I can feel the eyes of my comrades upon me as I count out our last few remaining clips of ammunition. I can hear some disdain-filled remarks about our surplus of tires alongside our complete lack of any other usable resources.

The hour is late and the zombie activity runs high, but I know I can't face the rest of the group without something to eat for at least the next several hours... so, against my better judgment, I venture out into the wilderness. They're everywhere... I don't know how I imagined this foraging trip was going to work out in my favor, but I'm lucky to scrape by with a little bit of food, only minorly shaken by the creatures I couldn't bring myself to use our precious and dwindling self-defense matériel on. Given the physical toll, I begin to realize that this isn't a time to be stingy, and tough choices will have to be made.

I reluctantly have to inform the rest that we'll have to tighten our belts and reduce the rationing of our precious supplies, at least until times aren't quite so tough. Their hungry eyes stare scornfully at me with this latest news, and I'm not sure I can rightly blame them. Everyone has a hard time stealing away a scant couple hours for a nap before hunger won't allow any more.

In desperation, I turn towards fishing in the questionable waters for some food. Any food. For some reason, the time doesn't even seem to pass while I'm here... it's unfathomable, but there are some things that can make time pass even more slowly than watching those you once called friends gradually starving to death, knowing that it's all your fault.

I even used to LIKE fishing... but there's something about dredging up pieces of zombies that really puts a damper on the situation while your stomach won't let you forget that everything is riding on this next cast of the line...

I decide that SOMEONE out there must be more desperate than we are. Someone must need some of those tires I risked my life for... they must surely be good for something besides reminding me of just how futile my efforts have been, especially now that we're pushed to wit's end...

Most passersby want outrageous things... they want medkits, scrap, batteries, ammunition... more and more reminders of the things we don't have as my ship sinks around me and I am soon to be captain of a capsized derelict. This too seems to do little to at least pass the time and bring us to an inevitable conclusion, as illogical as it seems. It's as though some unseen force, some spiteful god of numbers has decided to forget to carry the one and at least have the decency to drive those final nails into place instead of simply tossing them at me and expecting me to do the job for him.

Finally, we somehow have SOME supplies... it won't make for a comfortable journey, but at least my companions don't need to suffer. I idly nurse a fresh wound from my last attempt to snatch a grocery cart full of salvage from a mob of zombies, desperate for SOMETHING to bring home to our progressively more doomed convoy... what we have will need to suffice, because I don't think I can go out there again like this...

We cruise along, I can tell that the tensions are still not much improved, even with food in our mouths... the hours seem to run together. My arms on the steering wheel have never felt heavier, and as much as I'd like to question why nobody else can handle the task for a little while, I know that the others are too paranoid, clumsy, nauseated, and who knows what else to handle the task... I've got to keep going, to spare them this burden.

Driving along, we hit a bump in the road... not enough to more than slightly jostle the ride, but it's accompanied by a sickening splat. There's an accompanying stench... it grows in its pungency an surrounds us, as though it now comes from the station wagon itself... the odor is unbearable... I... I don't think I can... ... ...

The money... where's... the mon... e...y. No more... mon... e... ghhh...

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I think it's a holdover from Oregon Trail, but if the party leader dies at any point, the game just ends. I can only speculate how those four goofballs would fare after the crippling supply crisis that LAST party leader left them with... what an asshole, who was that again? I'm just glad have no further part of it, so good luck!