Thursday, July 17, 2015
We dismissed the very first warnings like an annoying carpenter bee, assuming the threats hollow, the dangers distant. A threat so immense seemed outlandish at best, over estimated at worst. This town had seen its fair share of strife, and the strength and skill of our people was known far and wide.
But this afternoon, the sirens shrieked a warning we’d all feared for an entire year. I sat and huddled with my family, gathered close to keep the baby bubbles safe, listening to the announcement that might herald the end. Over hushed hisses and whispers, a voice announced they’d already washed through Raleigh – chewed through it like a yeast through sugars – and left ethanol devastation in their wake.
If Raleigh could not stay the invasive tide, what chance had Asheville?
Friday, July 18, 2015
We see them now, emerging from the sky and ground. They descend in t-shirt and khaki clad droves – writers, bloggers, media junkies, updaters of websites strewn with horrifying photos of my fallen brothers and sisters. The legacy of their thirst precedes them. Some say they’ve drained entire towns dry and then had the callous gall to write about the liabtious murders publicly, on the internet.
They know little shame. They know few limits. They are finally here for us, and our defenses are too few.
They’ll come pouring through those doors in less than fifteen minutes. All we can do is hide behind the stainless and pray.
I hear them now, singing orders over the din of greetings and zealous embraces. Some call for five or six at a time – “rounds” they say – in deceptively cheery tones. Milt fought hard against the current, but I saw him slip quietly into the darkness of the undertank. He’s probably in that transparent guillotine already.
Remember our names for I fear we won’t have them much longer; the night has only just begun.
They laugh! Horrid ripples that echo in the ever growing empty space above us.
Some spill the lifeblood of my family as callously as one might spill water from a kettle. We’ve lost nearly half our group in mere hours; all sucked down and forced through lines like cattle being lead to slaughter.
From the clinks and gasps I gather our glass-borne cousins faired no better. Vienna mentioned something about laying low in Virginia until they passed, but the Devil’s at play here, and I fear no one is safe. Red mentioned heading even farther north, but I almost fear the open air more than the wort-hungry wolves at our door.
It sounds – dare I say it – like they’re slowing. Few of us remain, but the night is not a total loss. A few neighboring tribes suffered even heavier losses. At least two camps of Ippeh went down early. They seemed to favor the flavor of them most.
Perhaps we’ll live to see tomorrow after all. I won’t sleep tonight.
Saturday, July 19, 2015
We survived the night quietly, calmly. In the somber midnight we counted our losses; several hundred in our tribe alone had their lives pissed away. Such a waste. A passerby said our distant cousins Jack and Morgan hadn’t gone unscathed either, but we had our own to mourn.
A local scout noted the swarm seems more sluggish now. Many wear eye protection and and drink brightly colored liquids, moaning grotesquely while rubbing their heads. Perhaps they are weakening. Maybe our luck has turned?
We have no time to rebuild defenses; our only hope is that our numbers prove too much for them and eventually they move on, bellies full, sated.
It can’t be.
They definitely have not weakened; if anything, their bloodlust seems renewed, compounded, surreal. They’ve gathered thousands from the Bottle tribes in one place for reasons unknown. Ritual chants come from crowded side rooms. Flanders thinks they’re working towards some kind of sick ritual sacrifice.
How can we possible stand against such energy, such passion, such voracious desire for our flesh?
::indecipherable scribbles next to a brown stain::
I nearly lost myself to the abyss. Only a handful of us remain. We can see the gaping maw of our doom sucking in the last vestiges of our people, our culture, our legacy. I’ve fought all I can. It’s just a matter of time.
Riss is gone, and I feel a tug on my legs. Horrid oxygen above, swirling death below. I see no other choice. My fate lies beyond the seal.
If anyone finds my journal, tell my story. Remeber the stuff we were made of.
They will come for you next.
They are powerful.
They are legion.
They will cheers your death and then write your life.
Hey, Steve. This keg is kicked; can you switch it over?