This is the first story in a series of, well, stories about minecraft. It's written in diary form (how original).

This is my first blog, so don't tear me apart. Okay?

November 24th:

Dad says I should start writing in this old book he found. He says that someday, when we finally see other people, it'll be good to tell them our story. To me, it's just a way to stay grounded, so that I don't drift away into sadness and loneliness...Like my brother did.

It's snowing outside, now. Dad says that this is good weather for hunting, since our footsteps are muffled in the white fluff, and any animals outside, save sheep, will probably be too cold to think about predators right now. It's twilight, though, and I wouldn't want to be caught outside at night. Dad brings up a good point, though, about how we'll be needing firewood anyway to keep warm. I get on my leather boots because I've gotten frost-nip before, on my toes, and I don't want any of that again. Dad says It's lucky that I didn't lose any to the cold, because he lost a finger about a month before my tenth birthday. Dad has a bit of a fever, so it's up to me to gather firewood. It's probably good that he's staying home, anyway, because my brother, Harry, is less social today than normal. It'll be good for him to have some company. Well, I'd better put this book down, because i'm using too much ink, and it's getting late.

November 26th:

Dad's really gonna let me have it when he wakes up today. If there's anyone reading this now, you may have noticed that the dates have gone from the 24th of November directly to the 26th. This isn't a mistake...I guess I'll start recapping with the night of the 24th.

So I'd just gone out to gather wood for the fire. Usually I just chop down the trees right next to our house, but I'd found a huge oak tree a couple days earlier, and I wanted to hack it down tonight, because this snow just isn't letting up. I found the oak, and with a couple of chops from my axe it was down. After I gathered all of the wood from the huge tree, I started home. That's when I heard the growls. Snow crunched, coming towards me. I cursed and started running in the opposite direction. It was so dark! How could it be so dark? I ran until I was out of breath, then looked behind me. Nothing but a forest, pitch black in the moonless night. Something cold touched my arm. I swung my axe blindly, but I relaxed after realizing that the terrible thing in the darkness, the thing that chilled my blood a second ago, was just a cold tree branch, mutilated by my axe. I sighed.

After walking for a good half hour, I decided to set up camp for the night. I scaled a small tree and fell asleep on the thickest branch I could find.

Now for yesterday's adventure.

November 25th:

I woke up completely covered in snow. The sun wasn't visible in the sky yet, and the sky was the kind of dull, grey-blue that you see before an afternoon rainstorm. I brushed the snow off of me as best I could with numb fingers, and looked down from my perch. The ground was a pale, eerie white blanket of snow, seemingly without end. I hopped down from my branch and fell through at least a foot of snow. I chopped down a couple of small trees -- after all, it's always good to have a stockpile -- and started home. I walked for about a minute and realized that I should use the trees to orient myself. I climbed up the biggest oak I could find and looked at my surroundings from it's top. I could see the faint glimmer of firelight through the blanket of fog that hung lowly over the landscape, and wondered if it was from my house. If it was, it would mean that my dad had gone out to get wood for the fire, which I assumed he would have after noticing that I was still gone.

It took me until midday, but I finally reached the light source. Heck, I even got some chicken meat on the way from a particularly oblivious specimen. It was probably deaf too, because I didn't even try to sneak up on it. Anyway, I looked at it from some low bushes and quickly realized that it wasn't my house. It looked like a camp! But who could have made a camp here? The only humans I knew of that weren't dead were me, Dad, and Harry. Could they have come out here searching for me? It seemed unlikely that dad would risk it, but anything was possible. If it wasn't family, who could it be? That was my last thought before a shovel made contact with the back of my head. Hard.

I woke up about two hours later. My hands were bound together by thick string, and although I was laying near a fire, I was icy cold. It was about five minutes until my captors came back to their camp. Two men and a girl, all with luxurious woolen scarves and metal swords, honed to perfection. One of the men, this one had jet black hair, was the first to speak. I don't remember exactly what he said, but it was something to the effect of 'You belong to us now. Be happy that we didn't just kill you when you found our camp'. Well, gee. Way to make a guy feel welcomed.

I managed to kick open my backpack, and sighed in relief. At least they didn't take my wood.

The other man, this one with grey hair and a brown beard, examined my body. After a thorough search, he nodded at Mr. Blackhair, who I guess was the leader of the group. Blackhair mumbled something to the girl and she wordlessly cut my bindings with a sharp piece of flint. I picked up my backpack and started to back away when all three of them drew their swords. I widened my eyes and held up my hands to show that I didn't mean any harm. That's when I heard the growl.

I ran forwards, wasting no time in diving behind the people with swords. I looked at the place I had just left, and in my place was an abomination. It had a fly-bitten face full of holes, pale green skin, and the grey, vacant eyes that are the mark of an undead -- a zombie. The grey-haired man lunged forward first, slicing through muscle and bone, and the zombie was soon missing an arm. The man grunted and thrusted again, this time aiming for the soft neck of the creature. Unfortunately, he missed, and the lumbering monster took a chunk out of his sword arm. The others, without the slightest hesitation, hacked his head off. I opened my mouth to say something, but words couldn't form. I turned and ran.

It took some work, and a whole lot of fear, but I made it home just after midnight. I went straight to my room, which included a bed and a small chest, and fell promptly to sleep.

November 26th:

As I said before, my dad is going to kill me! I got up early, just to recap on the events of the last couple days in my journal. Thinking back on it, I probably should've told my dad about the zombie encounter, so we can prepare. I should also tell him about the encounter with the other survivors -- the only ones I've seen since the plague wiped out all of the major cities and towns.

I'm writing this on my bed, and I guess it's time to face the music, to go see my dad. I guess I'll put this book down now. It's just as well, my writing hand is getting tired.

Oh, god. I don't know why I'm writing this. I guess it's so that if anyone finds this house, they'll understand what happened here. I left my room to see my dad, and I noticed a red stain outside of his room. A smear, pressed into the wooden floor. I tried to open his door, but it was locked. I started to panic, and tears welled up in my eyes. I slammed into the door several times, and it finally broke open. My dad was still in bed. One of his windows was broken, and there was some dark, gelatinous blood on the floor beneath it. It wasn't my dad's. I slowly moved next to the bed, and saw that my dad's eyes were a dull grey. I cursed. I cursed and cursed and cursed. My tears mixed with his blood, and I realized that he would be turning...Turning into one of those things...soon. Using my axe, I chopped his head off. That would, in theory, stop him from coming back as a zombie. I picked his remains up carefully, being careful about avoiding his blood, and dragged them to the fireplace. I lit it and prayed for him.

I looked up, and remembered my brother Harry. His door was locked too! I wasted no time in hacking it open with my axe. He was gone. Just...gone. He must've been scared, must've tried to escape. It would've been no easy feat. My brother Harry was born blind, with eyes almost completely white. He'd learned how to use his other senses to compensate, but I really worry about him. He's never been on his own before, and he's always been a little bit wild. What if someone mistook him for a zombie? His eyes certainly make him look the part.

I'm leaving this journal here. I can't stay in this house. Too many bad memories. If anyone finds this, my name is Davis O'Bryan, and this book belongs to me. If you can, bring it to me. I know this next wish is a longshot, but it would mean the world -- literally -- to me.

Please find my brother, Harry O'Bryan. He goes by the nickname 'Herobrine'.

-Davis

If you enjoyed the story and want me to make another, please comment or leave a diamond...Or both. Both is good too :D