#0045 | 08/02 | 01:38 AM

Philosophical bullshit time.


There is no beauty in the darkest night.

They're out there again. The dogs. Out there on the school grounds. Riveting growls and howls. But they're no longer searching for their felled comrade. Nor are they simply in mourning as they appeared the night before.

The dark night is thick with the ungodly heat that pervades summer - thick with that and something far less tangible. Blood lust.

There is no fear in the brightest day.

There's a perpetual shiver running down my spine. My hands are alternating strangely. One minute, they feel thick. Clammy. And the next, they can't seem to stop shaking. And my fingers seem to lag in movement. Always a few seconds behind what I attempt.

The entire pack is out there tonight. A dozen? Two dozen? God knows how many. But it's a shit-load lot. And if that one night I saw them in action is any kind of bastion to go by, these things are far more calculating and cooperative than the human Freaks we've encountered so far.

I'd like to be an optimistic little prick - I'd love to believe that with a little grit and luck and determination, we could all go out, take these motherfuckers on, and live to see tomorrow.

I fucking hate being optimistic.

None of us are seriously trained in armed combat. We're down to myself, Anna, the elderly doc, and an unconscious woman.

Oh, and Hector of course. Sorry, I haven't seen him all day, he's sorta still out of it. Green around the gills (blue around the balls). Kinda scary, the moment I stop seeing someone somewhat routinely, my mind files them away on edge. As if to treat them as dead at moment's notice. Sorta like how I'm treating Colin. Only I'm sure Hector is still alive.

That's probably something I picked up emotionally without even realizing it. Kinda scary.

Honestly, that we've survived this long is sheer luck. No. Beyond luck. Someone upstairs must like us.

But judging from the primal screams coming from outside, someone downstairs must dislike us even more.

Oh, yes. Screams. From the dogs. Quite a trick, no? I've never heard a doggy pull that trick before. But shit, it's not that part that worries me. It's how fucking outraged the things sound that worry me.

There is only ugliness in revenge.

If we challenge the dogs with our limited man-power and ammunition (not to mention the real bummer in all this: experience), we'd be lucky to take down even four of the beasts. We'd be flogged down quickly. Worse yet, probably painfully.

So, obviously, it is in our best interest to avoid that particular avenue of action. What that breaks down to is: don't fucking provoke the dogs.

Standing here, in the central building first floor corridor, just having heard one particularly loud roar coming from somewhere above on the roof, I have to wonder if that isn't already too late.

It feels like were fucking pacing around waiting for hell to break loose. But is hasn't. So far, we've only been getting hell's audio. No interactive visuals yet. Thank god.

And ugliness in beauty, but not in reverse.

So it's time I suppose. The waiting game. Which is why I'm pacing the corridor, rifle held in grim hands. Why Anna is back with Monica. Why Henry