When we found the island utterly untouched by the apocalyptic storms that had torn the rest of the world to pieces, we thought we'd found paradise. Of course we were suspicious at first, mostly for the fact that there were homes already built but no signs that anybody had ever lived in them.
Dust coated every surface in a thick film, even after we left every window and door open the air still felt powdery to breathe for days. We called it Desolation, called it out last bastion and prayed the seeds we'd managed to hold onto would thrive. If they didn't then we'd likely eat each other and gradually die.
It would buy us time at least, just as it had been the entire journey here. Two hundred people left in our ship and we were down to thirty eight. Over the next five weeks were down to twelve, not knowing where the others went and losing trust in each other by the minute.
Perhaps if we hadn't been so busy wondering who killed who we might have noticed all the hidden entry points dotted about each house, we might have found the rest of our group sooner and we might have survived for longer. At least we know something has survived on the island, something that's known humans for long enough to make home-shaped traps and use our own minds against us.
It has us all isolated within three months and had been picking people off whenever it felt like it. I don't even think it's hungry anymore, not with the sheer amount of people it's taken already. We're more like sport now, like catching grasshoppers or raising an ant farm.
The last person I saw was being chased by something made of crooked angles and too many hands, all grasping and all dripping. Followed the blood trails that morning and found chunks of their scalp trapped in one of the hidden doors disguised as a wooden floorboard.
I don't know where the rest of them is but I have a feeling I'll know soon enough, whether I want to or not.
Dust coated every surface in a thick film, even after we left every window and door open the air still felt powdery to breathe for days. We called it Desolation, called it out last bastion and prayed the seeds we'd managed to hold onto would thrive. If they didn't then we'd likely eat each other and gradually die.
It would buy us time at least, just as it had been the entire journey here. Two hundred people left in our ship and we were down to thirty eight. Over the next five weeks were down to twelve, not knowing where the others went and losing trust in each other by the minute.
Perhaps if we hadn't been so busy wondering who killed who we might have noticed all the hidden entry points dotted about each house, we might have found the rest of our group sooner and we might have survived for longer. At least we know something has survived on the island, something that's known humans for long enough to make home-shaped traps and use our own minds against us.
It has us all isolated within three months and had been picking people off whenever it felt like it. I don't even think it's hungry anymore, not with the sheer amount of people it's taken already. We're more like sport now, like catching grasshoppers or raising an ant farm.
The last person I saw was being chased by something made of crooked angles and too many hands, all grasping and all dripping. Followed the blood trails that morning and found chunks of their scalp trapped in one of the hidden doors disguised as a wooden floorboard.
I don't know where the rest of them is but I have a feeling I'll know soon enough, whether I want to or not.
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