Godfrey Sinclair

A celebrity is finding himself living during the end of the world.

The Journal Of Godfrey Sinclair by DSJ Biggs

Log Entry 1: March 3rd, 1953: “Dear Journal, you are my last friend in the world. Normally, even I would find this quite sad, but considering the amount of false friends I had before all of this, it truly puts these moments into perspective. I have no idea if anyone other than me is still alive, in which case, I suppose it won’t take long for me to succumb to madness. In the case I’m not alive to see the members that are left in this world or perhaps a new society is built from the ashes of whatever holocaust has fallen upon the world, I will leave this here in my desk for you. My name is Godfrey Lawrence Sinclair, you may have seen me in Reno, perhaps a member of the sold out shows in Europe, either way, if you have heard my music and are a fan, I’m very appreciative. Normally, I’d say that with less than no emotion, but since I don’t have hordes of adoring fans anymore, it’s rather nice to know someone is still listening. What I wouldn’t give to hear someone else, even if they weren’t praising me…though I know I’d want that more.”

Log Entry 2: March 4th, 1953: “There is a mass grave outside, below my apartment. Not a traditional mass grave mind you, something much worse. The air, the mist, it changed people. It made them monsters, monsters in the worst way I can describe. I doubt the horrors in a Lovecraftian work could hold a candle to the creatures outside. I’ve never left my apartment once since this whole thing began, my bathtub full of water and my hair gel supply on it’s last legs. I tried pretending it was just a bad nightmare, like it was nothing but my mind on some bad drugs. But it was only after seeing people being torn to shreds by the beasts in the streets, I realized that this was no mere nightmare, not something I could walk away from, this, this was survival.”

Log Entry 3: March 4th, 1953

“This whole thing began in late February. Don’t believe any new world prophet or ruler that tells you different. I don’t care if god damn Dean Martin rules the world now, that slimy prick, don’t believe any different! I have been surviving here for almost two weeks now, I won’t have any tell something different. Society was perfect, the nuclear family was booming, America and those damn Russians were at odds, but everything was going to be alright. The Russians did this, you know. Well, I don’t know for certain, you can’t know what you don’t know. But who else would do this to us? Cuba couldn’t pose any threat like that. I hope Russia is a rotting husk of death, if I ever see it. It matters very little now, honestly. This city is dead, and it doesn’t even matter if we did it to ourselves. When I was a young boy, I went to summer camp, many times. An Eagle Scout through and through, I was. I learned everything I’d ever need to know to survive, even though my mind has grown a bit...hazy, as of late. So, if one of my traps goes off on some poor soul or whoever read this gets wounded, my apologies, those weren’t meant for you.”

Log Entry 4: March 6th, 1953

“I wish I said something. I wish I had gotten the courage to tell that b*****d Carmichael over at Imperial Records I was f*****g his wife behind his back, but I was satisfied with the damage I had done anyway. Oh, my lovely affair. I’d never felt that way about a woman as I did Anastasia Di Angelo. Every other woman I had ever been with, I knew a dozen just like them. Ana was unique, she had thoughts I wanted to hear, words I wanted her to speak. She married that b*****d for his money, but she came to me for everything else. I never knew why she didn’t just leave him, but out of excitement of the matter, I said nothing. I see her every now and again, at least I think I do, untouched by the world around her. I opened my window just a bit the first time I witnessed her, wanting to yell with all my strength would allow, but I could not. She faded into the fog, just like everything else that was good. I lost sight of her. I wish I would’ve said something.”

Log Entry 5: March 10th, 1953

“The sirens never stopped wailing, but their voice changed, no longer one of warning the public, but one of a gigantic beast that was bleeding to death. It’s tone grew more and more dull and deep, and it’s pleads grew ever more evident. It’s volume began to break it’s ear aching chorus and instead became fragmented, like it was resting before howling in pain once more. Los Angeles, the most beautiful city in the United States, was dead, and wailing it’s pained afterlife call to anyone who listened. I could very well be the only one who still listens. I live in a downtown cozy penthouse right in the middle of the city, where I could once get a perfect view of the Hollywood sign. But now it and the Beverly Hills are shrouded in this plagued mist. It reminds me not only of that, but of something else, something much more horrifying. It reminds me that I am trapped in the belly of this undead beast.”

Log Entry 6: ???

“No one is coming. No one will save me, and I accept that. I now understand that i have a different purpose. I left my apartment for the first time last night, with a small axe I had found in some poor b*****d’s suitcase. I looted whatever goods I could from the hallway in my building. One of those things, it was there. It looked like a person, if all their flesh had melted away and only their blood and muscle could be seen. A pure red abomination, and it was staring at me. Right at me, not in hunger nor wanting. It just looked at me, and then began to lumber closer. I panicked at first, but I gripped my blade and swung it into its arm when it came close. It gave a most horrific shriek, like nothing I had heard before. Terrified but wanting to end this creature, I swung and swung and chopped its upper half to bits. It’s arm flopped to the ground, it’s other arm hanging by a fleshy thread. I then tried grabbing the pulpy mess that was it’s head before it slipped my grip. I stumbled, but it mattered very little. I chopped off it’s head like Hercules did to the Hydra. But that was not the only head that needed to be cut. Like the Hydra, many more must be removed. I have come to a choice now. I either die and rot away in my room, with maggots replacing my brain as a nesting ground. Or I face the outside world. Many, hell, anything could happen out there, but three paths come to mind. I’ll succumb, i’ll be devoured by the beasts in the streets, or maybe...just maybe...i’ll survive. Maybe I’ll make it out of this city of the dead and start all over. Maybe Anastasia...maybe she will be alive, and we can be together, free of the ones that held it all back. I needed to write this all down, I needed to empty my fears. Only courage can guide me now. I have brought out a revolver I keep in my desk (I didn’t think I needed it for the hallway.) and loaded the chambers. With a small bag of SPAM and Water, I begin my journey. So, with a heavy heart, Journal, my dear friend, I bid you adieu. To whoever finds this, thank you for reading. With love, Godfrey Sinclair.”