On this, the last sheaf of paper in my minute book, I write a finishing entry, a summerizational passage, assembling the intimately momentous of happenings since the onset of radiation deva pose. Early on, all hearty goods became scarce, necessities were in high demand, and it could take hour to get something as simple as milk. Lieutenant air force officer Peter Holmes, who as well stick outs in Melbourne with his wife and their daughter, was called on assignment to go on board the U.S.S. Scorpion, the only remaining naval submarine. His commanding officer, Commander Dwight Towers, is an American and throughout the remainder of his life he is unrivaled of the people here who have much difficulty act with the fact that not only are their families and friends all dead, except that they too will be dead shortly.
The sub left hand port to search for traces of life, be they vegetable, animal, or human, but returned with no luck. This, although in my heart of hearts I knew as to be the case, made me depressed, but I picked my self back up again, because I feel that there is no reason to live out my remaining days in depression until the distemper consumes me, while everyone else in the world is either dead or dying.
The sub set out again, to search for life on the California coast and to explore the possibility of a upkeep person sending out a radio station from Seattle, or what they think is Seattle anyway. When they docked family again, they were a crew ingredient short, as he had chosen to stay in his home town - to die among his family I suppose - and this was saddening, but I was able to take it in stride more easy than the news that the radio...
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