DAY SIXTY-TWO.
ENTRY ONE.
BUCHANAN, ANGUS.
*THE FRONT FEW PAGES ARE A MASS OF SCRIBBLES, WITH SOME SKETCHY MAPS.*
Christ, honestly losing track of how many bloody days I've been out in this place, two months today, I think. Some days I think it was better inside the City, it's a fight for survival every fucking day out here. I've lost track of everyone, Kenny, Glenn, hell, I think they're both dead. The Stations are down; no radio contact, everything's fucked up beyond repair. Jesus, sometimes I forget what my name is, I mean, I don't even know what I fucking look like any more, I don't know anyone, I just can't fucking take it out here. Hell, all there is to do out here is trade for supplies, and half the time you get ripped off by some dodgy dealer. One thing's for sure, it seems like I'm remembering more things about my past by the day, it seems those people were correct about the water fucking up your brain. Maybe just one day, everything'll turn out alright. I need some more of those pills, I can't fucking last without them, they keep me sane, only two bottles of them left, and that'll only last two weeks or so. Jesus, I better get some rest, I'm turning into a mad-man.
TRADING STOCK AS OF DAY SIXTY-TWO.
ONE MEDICAL KIT.
THREE MP-7 SUB-MACHINE GUNS.
TWO SPAS-12 SHOTGUNS.
VARIOUS SUITCASES, CONTAINING SPARE CLOTHING.
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