Survival Tendencies

Prologue

This is an emergency broadcast. This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill. If you have yet to hear this, please make your way to nuclear shelters quickly. I repeat, this is not a drill. Please make your way to nuclear shelters. The country has entered into a nuclear war with North Korea. This is an emergency broadcast.

Dear Diary,

This is how the end of the world started. 

It was a normal Wednesday, August 14, 2016. My birthday. Ironic isn't it? The day I was born is the day the world ends.

The day was so normal; don't see how it could have all gone to shit so easily. I woke up, had my usual "happy cups", and rode my motorbike to work. Ah yes, crappy ass work in a shitty ass cafe on the dumbass corner of a filthy street. At least was a rather homey cafe. My boss greeted me and handed me an apron. I walk behind the counter and get ready for another dull, repetitive day as a barista.

Around my lunch time, the boss rushes into the kinda busy cafe. He turns on the tele, and there is an emergency broadcast. They tell us it's a war between North Korea; some shit happened and the North Korean representative kills the American one. That's what they tell us, and that's the footage they show us. But, I don't see what the others saw.

It's a tall and strange grey figure holding the gun. It's a tall and grey figure shooting the American representative. It's a whole crowd of them gunning down the crowd, and the cameraman with them. I look to see if anyone else is seeing this; it's only me that looks confused. The facial expressions are mixed: horrified, untrusting, satisfied even. But no one else is confused over the footage. I counted it towards my strange brain. I should have remembered that.

That was the first sign that this wasn't normal.

The crowd jumps from their seats and begin heading out. Our boss tells the rest of his workers to go home, to get to the shelter. I opt to take my bike, knowing I can navigate between small and tight spaces. I drive slow, so as to not hit any of the passing people or families. They carry various bags and suitcases; probably filled with family heirlooms or food and the like. I decide against it, knowing all my valuables were on me. My eyes look over the crowd, watching as we all headed to the same place, the nearby bomb shelter.

The guards posted at the entrance filed us all in. I was forced to leave my bike in a vehicle shelter and walk my way deep underground. I'm herded into a room with two other people, faces I can't bother to remember. The next few days are tense and quiet as people are handed food from the storage. I opt to save any non perishables. The ground shakes as bombs land in the city; I hear faint talks from the military roaming about of Daisy cutters and GBU's, not that I understand what they are.

Soon enough, the small televisions are turned on in each room, and another video is shown. It's safe to say we've declared war against other countries, showing footages of riots and military killing for no reason, of bombings and gassings. I stare blankly as I watch the strange grey figures flicker between human and alien, committing these acts. One day, during these broadcasts, I look around.

Two rows back in the crowd, I see another passive and confused face. I know they don't see what the others see, like me.

This should have been another hint for me on how strange it was, how we shouldn't be fighting. But I could care less.

The next few months pass by, and the world is in an all out war. Food is running out down here, and disease is starting to run rampant. People are dying, and no one was safe anymore. 5 months after the first initial bombing, our televisions alert us it's safe to step outside. The voice is warbled and the grey creature is flickering in and out of the President's place. The people around me look relieved; I learned to take the hints and not trust anything.

As people rush to go outside, I opt to linger behind and watch the chaos. My feet carry me up the steps, dressed in the same clothing I wore when I came in. They were looser now, lost of weight from the less eating. I carry the extra food in my messenger bag, an extra set of clothes provided by military and my twin pistols I carry everywhere, even in that god forsaken bunker.

The sun is dull, yet gleaming as we step outside. Buildings are caving into rubble and dust, and it is evident we've been bombed. Despite this, everyone is overjoyed to be alive. I watch as people rush forward, crying in joy and laughter. Only a selected few remain lagging behind. Much like me, they wore untrusting looks. I opt to walk into an alleyway nearby after grabbing my motorbike, miraculously intact, watching the scene incase something goes wrong.

I was right.

The first grey being steps forward from the trees, seemingly blending in. It reaches an elongated hand towards a family, and they squeal with joy. They rush forward to hug it, as if it were a long lost family member. It caresses the mother's head before brutally snapping it. The other members gaze upward in awe, eyes glazed over and expressions cheerful.

I shiver as more emerge to do the same to other people. Soon enough, the crowd is massacred within five minutes. The few not tricked like me, but unfortunate enough to not hide, were taken captive. They were herded into cages, too scared to fight. I take this time to get on my bike and pull out a pistol, just incase. As I'm doing this, I don't notice the figure behind me.

It grabs my neck, hard. I choke and aim backwards, far enough to shoot it blank in the face. It howls an inhuman scream; I take this time to ride out. The others are alerted of my presence as well, and I have to swerve to dodge long grey hands morphing to human skin. The captives cheer me on as I ride out of the city. I knew the food and water I've been saving up would last me at least a week, if not more.

I let myself wander into the forest surrounding the town, ignoring cries for help and whispers trying to lead me off course. My mind is on autopilot, as it had been since the first death by alien. I park deep in the woods near an abandoned log cabin, surprisingly untouched by any bombings. I can tell it's real; it doesn't flicker. My weary feet carry me in, and I pick the door easily with a hair pin in my bag. I lock the door behind me, and my weary feet lead me to the couch. I collapse, letting out a long and tired sigh. My hands naturally find my solar powered phone in my bag,turning it on. Nothing. It's as if the world was dead. I opt to hug my bag close instead, ignoring the oncoming chills of the night as I rest in only shorts and a grey sweater.

This was the beginning of the end. 

This was found at the wreckage of an old Ducati. Records show majority of the original book was burned from the initial crash. Dates back to 2016. The owner's status: unknown as of  #$%^&, 20%&