[b]Character:[/b] [url=http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3449302]PFC Michael Roper[/url]
[b]Location:[/b] Orik Farmstead
[b]With:[/b] No one.

[hr]

The door had been kicked through some time ago; the wood had rotted, and was laden with mold.

Michael stood flat against the wall besides the door, his armour chaffing against the wooden panelling. He breathed slowly, trying to minimise any noise he was making. Candle light flickered from inside, casting shadows across the porch; he studied them intently, and after a while, he started imagining he was seeing shapes form. He closed his eyes, shook his head. 

"Keep it together, man," he murmured to himself. 

He counted to three in his head, and then rounded the doorway with his shotgun held at his shoulder. He swept the barrel from left to right, but all that he was greeted with was dilapidated furniture and the odour of rotting food. 

"This is the army!" he called out. "Anyone home?" But only silence answered him.

He stepped forwards, careful with his footing. A few planks creaked with his weight, and he winced each time - but it couldn't be helped. He kept his gun at the ready, and continued to methodically check every corner, crack and crevice for signs of life. Though nothing stirred, not even a rat or a group of flies. 

It appeared he'd walked into the house's living room. It was rustic, with large wooden beams supporting the floor above; a tattered sofa lay against one wall, and an old fire place sat devoid of warmth. A few candles were scattered about the place, and looked to have been lit recently. 

He moved over to a door on the left, and tried the handle. It clicked open. Using the barrel of his rifle, he pushed the door aside - and then recoiled. 

It had been some kind of cloakroom or storage cupboard. Now however, it was the scene of some grizzly nightmare. Two corpses, torn and tattered, and probably at least a year old, looked back at him from a seated position. It appeared they were holding each other in comfort, but the ancient blood spatters and filth that covered the walls said they died in anything but. So bad was their state, that Michael couldn't even make out the style of their clothes, or even their genders. 

"What the fuck?" He asked aloud. 

One of the corpses held something in its hand, a little touch screen tablet by the looks of it. A red light blinked on the device periodically, and Michael bent down to retrieve it. The corpse was an unwilling participant though, and Michael was forced to break the poor bastard's hand clean off. 

As he turned it over to examine it, the device suddenly sprung to life, and text whizzed across the screen. Michael read it aloud to himself.

[color=fff200][i]Captain Morgan Jared,

2425, March 16th: Earth Time.

This will be the last entry of my Captain's log. 

We went out to the escape pod earlier, to see if we could get it airborne. It wasn't there. How did someone move 20 tonnes of ceramic and steel from right under our noses!? 

It doesn't matter I guess. It wouldn't have taken off, no, it was a false hope. 

The Watchers took six more of my men last night... well, for what passes as night in this strange land. Now there is just me, Sergeant Baits, and Doctor Eleth Claud. Baits says we should make a stand. Claud says we should keep exploring. It doesn't matter what we do in my opinion, we're doomed either way. 

Baits is talking about going to a farmstead up the road in search of food. I'd go, but me and Claud are both too weak. 

If anyone finds this, please notify the United Nations Space Command that I, Captain Morgan Jared, did not dessert. I did not run. I did not go missing. The Gravity Drive misfired, and it

They're coming.

Forget everything. If read this RUN DONT STAY[/i][/color]

Michael lowered the tablet, mythed. "2425? United Nations Space Command? This has to be a joke," he said to himself, smiling broadly underneath his gasmask. "Someone is royally fucking with me." 

Meanwhile, the corpses at his feet shuddered slightly.