14th January 2022
I'm Pauline Fletcher, 19, a Hair and Beauty student at Hull College. I used to live at 78 North Road with my mum, Chantelle, and my dad, Phil. Then there was my annoying little brother, Bell-he was only six, always under my feet. They're all dead now. Everyone is.
I met Sharron, her good-looking boyfriend Alex, and his brother Nathan when I first wandered into the city center, desperate for a place to hide. We became makeshift allies, bound together by the same raw terror but Sharron was stubborn. She was freezing-well all were-and we had no other way of keeping warm in that bitter, biting air. She wanted to light a small fire in the ruined courtyard, just enough to stop the shivering. I warned her. I told her those things would come like moths to a literal flame, but she just shoved me aside. She ignored my shaking hands and coaxed the embers to life anyway, desperate for a single moment of heat.
The fire crackled, casting long, dancing shadows against the broken brickwork. For a second, the orange glow felt like home. Then the creatures showed: slick, pale things that slither through cracks and whisper with too many limbs. Alex and Nathan tried to hold them off, standing their ground while the firelight glinted off the sweat on their faces, but nobody stood a chance. I didn't stay to see the end. I ran.
Now I'm holed up in an old shop on Lowgate...
The shelves are stripped bare, the floor slick with puddles and fragments of ruined lives. Even the back rooms was empty except for this pad. Empty cigarette packs rustle whenever the wind shifts through broken windows, but I don't dare light another match.
Every noise makes me freeze. Every flash of movement outside feels like their fingers reaching inside. If they don't find me tonight, I'll collapse first. I have no radio, no phone signal, no clue if anyone else survived. But I can't stop. Tomorrow I'll search for food-or at least a weapon.
16th January 2022
Last night I heard a loud scream coming from the dark-female, I think. It was close, and it only lasted only a moment. It's enough to make me consider moving on tomorrow. I'm out of supplies and desperately in need of food. Who knows when-or where-I'll end up. If you stumble upon this journal, my name is Pauline Fletcher and I'm 19.....................Add your own story; let someone else know who you are, because in the future all we might have left are our memories...
17th January 2022
It's 6 am. The streets look peaceful-silent and still in the pale light. I'm going to make a run for it today. If this is my last entry then I died running.
20th January 2022
I've made it across most of the city, putting as much distance as I can between me and the screaming. I'm holed up now in a convenience store on Holderness Road-one of those family-run places with shelves full of labels in languages I can't read. I found a pack of She'Riya noodles. They're cold, dry, and barely touch the sides, but it's food. I made sure to leave the chocolate alone; I remembered from somewhere that eating sugar when you're starving just leads to a crash without actually easing the hunger. I can't afford to be weak when I move.
The store has been completely ransacked. Pools of dark, oily fluid-the sick remains of what used to be people-dot the aisles like black shadows. Still, compared to the ruins closer to the center, this is a lucky score. Behind the counter, I discovered a heavy holdall stuffed with odds and ends that might actually keep me alive. Tomorrow, I'll pack every tin and bottle I can carry and head east. I'm going to try to sleep, though I doubt my eyes will stay shut for long. The Fluids seem to hunt at night, almost as if they know exactly when we humans are too exhausted to keep running.
21st January 2022
I shouldn't have tried to sneak out this morning. Across the street, the Fluids have claimed the old Hull Vac Repair Centre, and they've turned it into something nightmarish.
Twisted, turd-coloured branches are poking out through the shattered front window, tangling around the rusted signs and the old Henry hoovers still sitting in the display. It's a sprawling, jagged nest that seems to be eating the building from the inside out. Right in the center, dangling over the pavement like a heavy fruit, is a wet, pulsing sac-a pod the size of a torso.
When I peeked around the corner, I swear the thing shifted. It didn't just move; it tensed, as if the creature growing inside could feel my heat through the glass.
I pressed myself flat against the shop's cold metal shutter, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I can't risk a run-in with that thing. Not today. I'll wait until the light fails, then circle back and find another route through the back alleys of Holderness Road. Food isn't the problem-there's enough tinned stuff to last weeks-it's the water. Every tap I turn just gasps air, and I'm down to my last half-bottle. But as thirsty as I am, I'm more afraid of becoming prey than I am of dehydrating.
24th January 2022
I'm still in the shop, still staring at that massive Fluid nest choking the Vac Repair Centre across the street. Two days ago, curiosity got the better of me-a mistake that nearly cost me everything. I climbed over the low wall into the takeaway next door. The metal shutter was hanging off its hinges, twisted and useless, leaving the front of the shop wide open like a gaping mouth. I moved past the cold fryers and the smell of stale grease, inching closer to those turd-coloured branches that had punched through the ceiling.
I wanted to see the dangling pod up close. That's when it happened. The sac slithered open, and out dropped something the size of a raindrop-only uglier. It was all slick, translucent skin and jagged, unfinished edges. The baby Fluid locked eyes with me and screamed.
The sound was bone-shattering-a piercing, high-pitched wail like a siren crossed with nails on a chalkboard. I covered my ears, blinded by the physical pain of the noise, and bolted back toward the broken shutter.
I barely made it inside my hideout before a herd of Fluids poured onto Holderness Road. They moved in a writhing swarm, ripping doors off hinges and shredding anything-wood, metal, plastic-that stood between them and me. The shop shook under their assault, the vibrations rattling my teeth.
That was two days ago. I've spent forty-eight hours paralyzed by the sound of them patrolling outside. Finally, I managed to slip out the back, over the wall, and into the pub a few doors down. I can't stay here anymore; they know I'm in this block. Tonight, I'm leaving. I've packed my holdall with everything I can carry. I'll slip out the back, skirt the nest, and head for the docks. I need to find a boat. I need to get off this island.
26th January 2022
I made it out of the pub but didn't get far. The road ahead, just before the McDonald's, is a graveyard of twisted steel. It's choked with overturned cars, empty buses, and abandoned lorries-huge metal carcasses glinting like bone under the flickering, broken streetlights. The golden arches are still standing, but the glowing sign is cracked, casting a jagged shadow over the chaos.
On the upside, I spotted a food delivery truck stalled right by the supermarket. The driver must have run for it; the side door was swinging open, banging rhythmically against the frame in the wind. I helped myself to crates of canned beans, energy bars, and-thank God-bottled water. Real, clean water.
Now the problem is how to carry it all. I've stuffed the holdall until the seams are white with tension, but my legs are raw, the skin chafed and pulsing from all this walking. I'm exhausted, every muscle screaming for me to just sit down, but I have to keep moving toward the docks. I'll just rest here for a minute, tucked between these rusted vans. Just a moment to catch my breath.
27th January 2022
They woke me. It was 1:00 AM when I heard them coming: a wet, scuttling sound like fingers dragging across tile. I bolted, diving into a nearby charity shop, but in the panic, I sliced my legs open on the shattered glass of the front door. I scrambled inside, ignoring the sting, and threw everything I could find-heavy wooden clothes racks and a metal donation counter-against the entrance.
Now I'm crouched in the pitch-black, the air smelling of mothballs and old, damp coats. There's a throbbing, hot pain in my calves, and I can feel the blood leaking out, soaking into my socks. I'm listening to those low, wet whispers seeping through the cracks in the barricade, right past the mannequins standing like frozen sentinels in the dark.
It feels like they're hunting me specifically. I know it-I can almost feel the prickle of their eyes on my spine. I'm trapped behind a rack of winter coats, clutching my holdall and trying not to even breathe. If they break through that wood, there's nowhere left to run.
29th January 2022
I saw the first glimmer of other humans today. I was crouched behind the supermarket, pressed against that rusted corrugated fence that runs along the back. It's covered in those thick, green privacy tarps-the ones that look like artificial fur-but they're shredded and rotting, full of jagged holes. I squinted through one of the gaps, watching a small group gathered near the loading bay.
I didn't dare approach them. Aside from the fact that I probably smelled like a bin full of rotten food, every film I've ever watched told me the same thing: people who gather at a supermarket during an apocalypse are never the "nice" kind. In those stories, they're the ones who turn on you the moment things get desperate. I stayed as still as a stone, watching them through the plastic mesh until they moved on into the shadows of the aisles.
Watching them made me realize something painful: I've been alone too long. I can smell the stale grease and fear on my own skin, and if I can, those aliens definitely can. That's how they're tracking me-they're hunting by scent, and I'm a walking beacon of rot.
I needed to feel human again. I took half a bottle of my precious water and emptied it across my arms and legs, lathering every inch with a bar of soap I'd managed to scavenge. The cold water stung the glass cuts on my calves like shards of ice, but it washed away the layers of grime. I even washed my hair, squeezing out dark clumps of road-dust until the water ran clear over the floorboards.
For the first time in weeks, I smelled like myself again, not like a victim. My skin tingled, and my mind felt sharper-though I know a bit of lavender soap won't truly fool the Fluids. Can they track movement? Heat? Heartbeats? I don't know. But I'll take any edge I can get.
I've barricaded the door more firmly-driven a heavy shelf against it and jammed a length of metal pipe into the frame. Tomorrow, I'm making a break for the Port of Hull. I've marked the route on my map: back down Holderness Road, cutting behind the Asda, and then out onto Hedon Road. From there, it's a straight shot toward the Port's main entrance. If I can find a working boat, I'll finally leave this island behind.
Tonight, I'll rest. Dawn can't come soon enough.