This is a Journal Entry of one of the many lost souls of the HMS Beatrice Attack in 1923.
The 13th of January 1903 is a day I simply can never forget in my final moments of my life. My name is Eugene Smith, a former fisherman and now, former Solider. When I finish my tale, and warning, about the fishing town of Beatrice Bay and its swamp surrounding the entire town, my life shall hand, but not by my hands.
Our battalion was sent up to the small town, for we were given the orders to head into the swamp and to kill a group of ‘savage anthropomorphic freshwater crocodiles’ who had been murdering fishermen and anyone who entered the swamp and ‘leaving their bodies caked in mud’. Now, to be honest, I was a bit suspicious of this, as the leader of my Battalion was as well.
According to the President’s act of 1890, No Beastlings (Another term for Anthro) nor ingenious were allowed rights to own land unless given permission by a state governor or a county governor.
But the thing was, there was no record of any Crocodile Beastlings even LIVING in Beatrice Bay or the swamp.
But I don’t care about that now, I merely care to tell this story. I must not get off track, I must not!
I won’t go into much detail on how we got into the swamp, for I barely remember. But I do recall the smell of something being cooked and another solider in our group, McKein, throwing up because of a ‘terrible smell’ he could sense around the boat. There wasn’t any smell I can remember apart from the cooking.
Oh god, I remember the smell of death.
Mckein was only 19.
Due to the ageing of this journal entry, this entire section of Lieutenants Eugene Smith’s last journal entry was completely unreadable, with ramblings of ‘Pure Humanity’ and repeats of the phrase ‘O God help poor Mckein, for he was too young’ and ‘Beastlings are demons’. With the help of some local historians, the last section of his journal entry was managed to be restored and it was discovered that Smith had suffered severe trauma from the expedition into Killjoy Swamp.
I hear them now, swimming towards me. I see the shadow of the leader of the freshwater ones, right next to my bed.
I hear laughing, I hear growling, I hear the screams of the other passengers on my boat. But I ready for them.
If I’m going to die, my gun shall not have any bullets left in it.
O God forgive me, for I ate my legs off those twenty years ago.