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has effectively reduced the number of these disgusting horrors. I wanted to leave them alone; I still do. But James wouldn’t listen to reason, and the sight of the Jeep abandoned in the street didn’t help in my favor.
     
    They took everything they could carry, leaving a few rounds of ammo, a handgun, and a crowbar. A smear of blood stained the fabric of the backseat, marking where Grace had been. From the amount, she probably only has a few hours left. James was furious, and if the Marauders wanted to provoke the metal-head into a hellish frenzy they were surely doing a fantastic job. James couldn’t be controlled. I couldn’t talk to him. Much more, I couldn’t prevent him from following the blood splatter to a desolate strip-mall. I could hardly catch up, I didn’t have the energy to push any harder. I could hardly make out the scene from my position, but it appeared as if James stormed with a fully loaded gun and a bass reinforced with scrap metal.
     
    By the time I arrived, fresh mutilated bodies were strewn about with puddles of blood forming into a larger mass. The screams and gunshots echoed, piercing the silence with such intrusiveness that I’m sure it announced our location to every dead thing within a twenty-mile radius. I guess we were fortunate that only the floating heads took the approach, but I’m not so sure about how much better they really are. They might not clog the street, but smaller targets that float and pivot in mid-air make for annoying enemies. James was already deep in the building, in a backroom where he pummeled an already slain member of the Marauders. The narrow space made for good cover, if it weren’t for the choking space, I’m sure the floating fiends would’ve gotten the best of us.
     
    I stayed in the corner, firing rounds warily at the ones that slipped past James. My nervous hands reduced my aim, slugs slammed through the drywall, engraving into brick, while only a few actually hit home.
     
    I didn’t know they could shoot flame, and I, not knowing what to expect, froze when the time to move became most important. My left hand was caught in a searing projection of flame, burning the hairs clean off while leaving behind a throbbing sensation of pain.
     
     
    We closed the door after we cleared the first wave of them. James thinks it is silly that I continue to write these logs, as if anyone would take the time to read it during these hellish times…. Perhaps he is right.
     
    Through a combination of James’ rage, Marauder activity, and demented fiends, we destroyed this family owned video store. Bullet holes punched through the walls of the backroom, scorched surfaces mark the fire-tongue the fiends were so willing to use. I’m surprised that James only received a few grazes from the Marauders, I suppose they weren’t expecting to be attacked by a crazed, psychotic metal-head gone berserk for the possibility of getting laid one last time. That’s what it seems to boil down to. James refuses to agree, but I find the joke to be the only way I can cope with this suicidal deviation. It wasn’t bad enough that we risked our lives surviving for another day, I guess. I suppose making us easy victims of the Marauders would only increase the fun…
     
    What the fuck are we doing?
     
     
    Entry Twenty-Five, 1/19/15
     
    The relief of surviving for as long as we had felt good, but the shuffling outside the door was evidence that our break would have to wait, and I barely managed to catch my fucking breath, much less find something to treat the painful burn that scarred my arm. The Marauders, if they weren’t aware before, became alarmingly aware once they noticed the mess James made of their people. They taunted for us to come out from the backroom just before spraying lead, tearing through the drywall, nearly hitting us out of sheer luck.
     
    James knocked against the backdoor several times, trying with might while bullets whirled by, and he tumbled once it opened.