Kingdom of Vermin

June 25th, 2067

Don’t know why I'm writing this. Now of all times. Seems pointless. No one is going to read it. No one is going to find me. It’s not like they leave anything behind. Not like us. I suppose it’s as good a way as any to spend your final moments. There's fuck all else to do in here. To think, a food court freezer in some corporate fast-food joint is to be my final resting place! Sounds like a bad joke really. Oh well, hope’s free and I've always been an optimist! Should you happen to find this diary, know that here lies the final resting place of Scott Redding from Block 6CCC, Salvage Quarters, DD extraordinaire. That's Dumpster Diver by the way, case you’re not down with the lingo. We unfortunate few who have the enviable task of digging our way through the grime-caked remains of Earth, the Old World. You know, the one we ruined. We took and took, polluted the oceans, choked the atmosphere, stacked our trash into towering monoliths till the only thing that could thrive, were the roaches, the fleas....the rats.

Course, that’s how we ended up on Sanctuary. Thankfully someone from the Old World had the forethought to have a backup plan, in case we finally took just that little too much. Sanctuary was the backup; a multistoried space station, designed to house tens of thousands if need be. Try millions. New home, same old story. Overpopulation, too many mouths to feed, housing shortage. The solution - split the station in two. Upper and lower. Rich and poor. Olympia and the Underworld. The Upper decks featured comfortable living, horticulture, dining and entertainment, the whole nine yards. Whilst below the rich and fanciful, in the guts of the station, amidst the roar of the machinery and grinding of gears, we survive. We live on top of one another, like rats in an industrial maze. A veritable kingdom of vermin subsisting on the trash and refuse of those above us, our gods in Olympus.

It’s good to remember our past mistakes. Makes seeing it all happen again less surprising.

You probably knew all that anyway. Chances are if you’re on the godforsaken surface of the Earth you’re from the Underworld. No rich, upper deck bastard would be caught down here. There I go again stating things you probably already knew. That'd be the hypoxia; the O2 needle dipped into the red not long after I shut the door. Tends to make one a little wistful, that or the blood loss. Those bastards got me good; their fangs may be small, but they sure do bite hard. I’ve tied the leg off, don’t want to even think about all the bacteria wriggling and squirming their way through my blood stream right now. Not that the inevitable gangrenous infection followed by crude and severely traumatic amputation is what is going to do me in here. Silver linings, I guess. It’s not the thought of dying that scares me though. I need a marker of some kind, something to prove I was here, on the off chance that someone stumbles across my remains (if there are any). I can hear them, skittering, screeching, scratching at the freezer door. They know I'm here. They can smell the blood I guess.

I've heard stories; anyone in this profession has. Some of the DDs carry weapons on their runs, not because it would help them if they ran into the things that swarm and scramble outside, but because having the option to take your own life is preferable to the alternative. Maybe it’s not as bad as they say, though truthfully, it’s hard to imagine a fate worse than being devoured by thousands of tiny gnawing, gluttonous mouths. I must admit if there’s one regret I have, it’s that I didn't bring a weapon. So, the way I see it, my choices are to stay put and slowly lose my mind then suffocate OR, I could open the door.

Here’s the kicker; the cargo I was hauling back to the shuttle when I got jumped? Trust me you'll love this – fucking, personal, belongings. Another rich asshole paying management to push bullshit orders and now I gotta die for some business mogul’s knick knacks and keepsakes. I had to ditch most of it. It was that or die. Only thing I got left is this rusted, heart shaped locket. Picture inside is long faded. Probably something he gave to his wife or daughter to make up for an extended "business trip". Sentimentality for the Old World gets folks like us killed on a regular basis. Well this is one trinket he won’t be getting. My last little “fuck you” to our esteemed betters. I’m keeping the locket; let it and this journal serve as my memento mori. Needle’s dipped passed the point of no return. Leg’s stopped hurting; don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing, don’t really care to be honest. Won’t be long now.

Finding it hard to keep focus, but there’s a blissful ignorance in my delirium. Even in my final moments I’m a sucker for hope. If you happen to find this journal and locket let it serve as a grim reminder. We wasted our first chance; we are rapidly wasting our second. There will always be smart people with a backup plan. Make sure we do not waste our third. Here in this culinary coffin in the dark, thick, toxic fog all I can do is cling to hope. Hope that there is a future for us as a species. Hope for a life fit for all not just the entitled few. But most of all, hope for someone out there to finally stop our self-destruction and save us. Some would-be hero to ride in on angelic wings and change our hearts and minds. To swoop down and cast out the verminous hordes, finally smashing the financial and social barriers that divide us, reminding us that we all bleed red inside. In fact, if I listen close enough, I can hear them banging on the door already. They've already come, and salvation and rescue lie but a mere 10 inches on the other side of this steel-reinforced door. I'm going to take a deep breath and greet them with open arms.

Scott Redding, Salvage Team.