!["Lucky Strike" | by [PMG] Jake](http://live.staticflickr.com/5014/5515344621_256bb52349.jpg)
[PMG] Jake
"Lucky Strike"
Log Entry, Day 55:
Today was interesting, to say the least. I haven't been able to make any entries the last couple days because I've been cornered in dollar store. The Trans Am I had hot wired ended up wrapped around a telephone pole when one of the walkers stumbled out in the street. I thought it might have been a survivor, but a second inspection after I was out of the wreck showed only the same broken shamble, blood frothing mouth, and lifeless eyes that are so common here.
A single shot to the head destroyed it, but the sound brought a horde of at least 40 of them from a nearby stadium... not sure what they were doing there, but I'll never forget them clamoring over the turnstile one after the other... coming towards me unrelentingly even as I dropped at least half of them. It was by far the biggest group of them I've encountered since I've left. The machine pistols I was supplied with worked very effectively... until I ran out of magazines. All I had left was a snubnose .38 I found in the glove box of the car. I was able to make it inside the dollar store and barricade the doors, but there was over 20 left, and I had no where to go. The last few days I've been aimlessly exercising, reading magazines in what daylight I get, and living off what cheap packaged food isn't rotten. The moans of the infected are absolutely maddening, so a few hours in I plugged my ears with some cotton I found.
Even with that, the explosion that shook the entire building on the third day still made me half deaf. The entire front half of the building was obliterated, and glass and chunks of concrete littered the floor. I heard some long bursts of automatic gunfire, then silence. Squinting through the dust that had been stirred up, I saw a tall figure step in. He wore mirrored aviators, a shirt with the sleeves cut off, what I believe is a Vietnam-era magazine pouch, cowboy boots and a genuine ten-gallon hat. He carried what at some point in time was an M4 carbine, but now was bastardized almost beyond recognition.
“Howdy, I'm Dex. You got any smokes?”
"Lucky Strike"
Log Entry, Day 55:
Today was interesting, to say the least. I haven't been able to make any entries the last couple days because I've been cornered in dollar store. The Trans Am I had hot wired ended up wrapped around a telephone pole when one of the walkers stumbled out in the street. I thought it might have been a survivor, but a second inspection after I was out of the wreck showed only the same broken shamble, blood frothing mouth, and lifeless eyes that are so common here.
A single shot to the head destroyed it, but the sound brought a horde of at least 40 of them from a nearby stadium... not sure what they were doing there, but I'll never forget them clamoring over the turnstile one after the other... coming towards me unrelentingly even as I dropped at least half of them. It was by far the biggest group of them I've encountered since I've left. The machine pistols I was supplied with worked very effectively... until I ran out of magazines. All I had left was a snubnose .38 I found in the glove box of the car. I was able to make it inside the dollar store and barricade the doors, but there was over 20 left, and I had no where to go. The last few days I've been aimlessly exercising, reading magazines in what daylight I get, and living off what cheap packaged food isn't rotten. The moans of the infected are absolutely maddening, so a few hours in I plugged my ears with some cotton I found.
Even with that, the explosion that shook the entire building on the third day still made me half deaf. The entire front half of the building was obliterated, and glass and chunks of concrete littered the floor. I heard some long bursts of automatic gunfire, then silence. Squinting through the dust that had been stirred up, I saw a tall figure step in. He wore mirrored aviators, a shirt with the sleeves cut off, what I believe is a Vietnam-era magazine pouch, cowboy boots and a genuine ten-gallon hat. He carried what at some point in time was an M4 carbine, but now was bastardized almost beyond recognition.
“Howdy, I'm Dex. You got any smokes?”