Project Phoenix File No. J45305 Archive.
Reconstruction Initiative: Data Retrieval Department.
Charred remains of notepad found on the body of pers Probable owner: Sgt. Jarred Reece approx. three years after first infection in an abandoned stronghold on a Hoffman island one mile ESE of South Beach, Richmond NY.
May 25th 2013
If there has ever been a moment that I could describe as bittersweet, it was the moment we set foot on this boat.
On the bright side, we were finally in some form of safety that had eluded us the entire time we occupied the LAV III. There's something about the yacht that makes me feel free, and out of reach of the horrors we've been living through the past several months.
But at what cost? I lost four of my men, and countless survivors that have tried to travel with us, the most recent, a young man who I thought would have been a great addition to our team in time.
Today, I lost Jason Schultz, my driver and friend. Half his body torn from the drivers hatch of our vehicle.
Today, I lost James, a fine American soldier who we ran into only a few days after all hell broke loose. He helped us navigate the dense populated areas we weren't accustomed to, and lead the way when we were lost in the vastness of the American cityscapes.
Today, I shot two men, who's fates I ultimately decided upon.
Boris, his legs crushed and trapped in the LAV III. I didn't want to admit it, and I thought at first that the others were unaware of my mercy killing. Apparently they were quite aware.
On the deck of the yacht, James was coughing up blood. He knew that it was happening, and so did we.
That boy, I wish I had a fraction of his courage.
I remember it now. Jon came from the helm above deck, he saw us all surrouding James, yet keeping our distance. It took him very little time to realize what had happened.
"What now?" Jon asked, staring at us.
James, stood slowly, holding his throat as the infection already began to ravage his body. He looked up at us, bloodshot veins beginning to slither toward his pupils. "Take away it's prize Jarred, don't let it win."
There was a moment of silence, then I asked the question. "Are you sure? There are other ways."
"No." He answered. "One shot, clean. don't hesitate."
He had barely finished the word when my rifle was raised and a round began traveling down the spout. It struck him directly in the forehead; the exit wound exploded into a mist of vaporized gray matter.
The single shot echoed, it was like the punctuation of a sentence; clear, yet resonating with the questions behind its meaning.
For those on deck, it maybe seemed like it took only the fraction of a second for me to do what I did. However from my point of view, it was an eternity of questions and doubts. It was the word that drove me to push aside my humanity and do what I had to do.
How could I? Every second I let the boy breath, was a second closer to a dangerous problem. He knew what had to happen. He was prepared, and if he wasn't?
Too damn bad.