by Danny Drew and Daquande Summers
Geoff Petersons personal diary, 2046
It's been 10 years now, this has gone on for too long. We're only fighting for safety. The Enemy has no motives, no decency.
As far as I know, my men have died for nothing. Outside, I can hear gunshots and strange breathing patterns. It sounds human, but I know it is not.
We call them zombies, but the NIHR (Non-Independent Human Resistance) are more than that. Some look deformed. Some are missing eyes. They look half-dead, too pale. From a medical standpoint, they are dead. It's only the chip in their heads that keeps them moving. They literally live off fighting. Their tactics include biting chunks off their enemy to consume, even at the risk of being shot. It's their food and only pastime.
I yell at one of my men, “Corporal, get a breach on that wall! We wanna bring the fight to them.” He puts the explosive in place, and we wait. I hear that they are coming near.
We only escaped just narrowly. Edged up to a cliffside, our only choice was to jump to the chopper. Inside the helicopter, they had supplies of the only thing we know works against the NIHR – dozens of canisters of vaporized concentrate of guacamole.
We threw the canisters into the mob of hideous creatures, and it short-circuited their clockwork. They collapsed in piles, swearing in Russian (or at least, that's what it sounded like), and a few of their stomachs exploded for punctuation.