• The world is in flames. My city, in shambles. I have failed my people.

    Today is the Seventeenth of November. I write in this journal for what may be the last time. My office is dark; the creatures have knocked down the electric lines and no one is left to run the back-up generator. The moon provides barely enough illumination for me to put pen to paper. Though my words are marred by jumbled thoughts and shaking hands, I feel it is my final duty as the mayor of this town to log its final hour.

    Behind me, across the room, the window reveals a hateful image. Droves of the creatures, crawling over the mud and fields ruined by their dreadful approach. I could not begin to explain what they are or where they have come from. They behave like nothing I have ever seen before... Disgusting, abhorrent creatures.

    From afar, they appear to be wounded soldiers returning to our city, perhaps with news of victory. Of course, no one but a fool would believe this sickening facade. The sluggish, bloodthirsty advance is easily mistake by those with a trickle of optimism left in their hearts for the triumphant march of homebound soldiers. Reality will soon meet those poor, foolish hearts with an iron punch. These creatures are indeed soldiers, oh yes, but their valiant souls were stolen from them as they fell in battle. These creatures are my own citizens, slain and risen again as the enemy. Dead, and yet somehow, very much alive. They are making their way towards the town square, where the final survivors of this nightmare have taken refuge.

    Despite the terrible image of what is to come, the true horror lies beyond the pane in front of my desk. The citizens, reduced to helpless, grime-covered peasants with nothing left to do but to pray. Families huddle together weakly, wishing for their negligent god to come to their aid. It will not happen. There is no hope for us now.

    The undead far out number us. Those few remaining untouched by the hateful disease will soon perish and add to their sick army. Each extinguished soul only further verifies my belief that the war we are fighting is futile. We must come to terms with our impending demise.

    Many of my citizens feel differently. They protest at my gate, on the steps of City Hall, insisting that action be taken against the creatures. With no possibility of ever restoring this world to a peaceful state, trying to resist our fate will only increase their numbers. We stand no chance, yet the denizens persist.

    Some of the men have taken to climbing the marble steps and pounding on the door. As I write, I can clearly hear their shouting from the lower level. Early in the night, the voices were pleas of help and desperation. From my window, I assured the townsfolk that they were turning to the wrong man for help. What could I, a humble servant to the public, hope to accomplish against the murderous creatures? The cries soon turned to curses; anger unleashed against the wooden barricade between my refuge and theirs. Fortunately enough, I had taken necessary precautions to block off the entrances to my office. No being, neither creature nor human, will be granted access to my quarters while I am still alive. I cannot afford to take that risk.

    Oh, God. A window has been broken. The sound of glass shattering sent my stomach tumbling into a quick bout of panic. How? Surely I know my own office well enough to avoid oversight. The desks on the first floor had all be dismantled for boarding the panes or stacked firmly against the doors to prevent entry, the windows secured and locked tightly... Perhaps only the glass itself has been smashed, yet not the wood behind it. Yes, of course. This is the true explanation. No need for further panic. The creatures will still be kept out.

    Glancing behind myself again, the diseased corpses draw nearer. It is a slow, agonizing approach, as if I were staring into a stopwatch, counting the seconds and anxiously anticipating the soft tick of the minute hand. I could easily count the seconds until the arrival of the horde, awaiting the final tick of my life, but I fear that my valediction shall be far from that of the minute hand's quiet shift. No life could end so softly nor so pointedly all at once, especially considering the circumstances in which I currently find myself trapped.

    From the mark at which I sit, I can clearly see the front lines of the undead mass. Some carry weapons, some carry rotted off limbs. Some even drag mangled bodies behind them, which I can only assume will somehow arise to walk again. Even the sounds they make can now be faintly heard through the walls; a faint droning the reverberates the air in an unnatural way, reminding me that what we currently face is not of this world.

    Another sound. My ears may deceive me, but I thought I heard faint footfalls on the floor directly below this office. Impossible, of course. The window was damaged, yes, but never could a person enter my quarters without my knowing. I did not hear any wood splintering, nor doors opening, nor any other sort of noise that could have meant an infiltration. The creatures are closer, however not yet close enough to hear their footsteps. The stress of the situation must be weighing more heavily on my subconscious than I had realized, causing a sense of paranoia. The sounds from downstairs were simply imagined.

    The townspeople in front of City Hall seem to have calmed significantly. They slouch on the steps, most turned away from my window, collected in small groups. The faces I can see are pitiful; stained with tears and sweat and dirt, scrunched tightly in an expression of agony or set solidly in a grim acceptance. Every so often, a child will spring up and begin to chatter excitedly. The mother will quickly grab the child and wretch him back down into the huddle, scolding him to hush himself, before settling back into an eerie silence. What a drastic change in mood from when last I looked.

    It must be the droning. The droning, of course, the droning. It is wearing on their poor souls. Yes, yes, as it grows louder still. The humming of thousands of raw, decaying throats is enough to put down their optimism once and for all. There is no hope. Finally, the citizens have realized this.

    Outside, beneath the windows on either side of City Hall, lie two distinct groups: One living, and another dead. Both are directly upon me. The creatures have started to claw mindlessly at the stone base of the building. I can hear the scraps of their nails, their gagging, gargling attempts at speech. They have come. The citizens of my town sit unmoved on the opposite front, camped pathetically with their meager spirits and lack of defense. They will die.

    Hold. Did I hear... yes, I did. There, again. The second to last stair leading up to my office has a warped board, and creaks upon contact. I hear it now. There is someone outside of this very room. But, who? The stone holds back the undead and the humans remaining are far too sullen.

    Checking again at the citizens scattered among the marble steps of my Hall, I have realized that the men have all gone missing.

    No, they are absent. Absent from their proper place. Missing, however, is not the correct term, for I know exactly where to find these absent men. I know from the metallic click of my office doorknob that they too know exactly where to find me.

    I have moved to the space beneath my desk and have drawn the pistol I had kept in a drawer. They have not yet entered the room; I had enough sense to take further precautions and tightly latch the door. The lock and the pistol will be enough to keep me alive until the creatures find their way around the building, as all formal weapons were given to the first batch of soldiers deployed to prevent this onslaught. The men will retreat to protect their beloved, and eventually they too will fall. My office door should be strong enough to hold them off until they grow tired of pawing at the same surface. They will move on, and I will live.

    If the men should somehow get past my door, as I have come to find that humans are much more intelligent than these creatures, I will make quick use of the pistol. There is but a single bullet; not enough to defend against a group of men, but enough to ensure that I will not be ruthlessly overtaken. My lifeless corpse will not be added to the ranks of the hellish beasts that plague the world. I will survive or I will die with dignity.

    The men have given up altogether on using the doorknob. They are now attempting to force their way into my office as they had the City Hall gate. Oh, God, the wood has begun to splinter. The window reveals that the undead have started to feel their way around to the other side of the building. Perhaps there is still a chance if the door holds out for a little longer. The creatures will be my saviors. Yes, of course! The door will hold. I will be spared. I will be saved! I will be