Timothy Alan - Victor's Countdown: 3 Days Left lyrics

October 19th, 2012 / 5:37pm – Three days until I die In Greek mythology, mortal men would cry to the Gods begging for a**istance with their human trials. In the modern era, man continues this practice. I myself also partake, in my times of need. When I harbor a dire necessity for divine intervention, when my path is so clouded that I cannot find my own way…I turn to a great...er power for comfort, confidence, and direction. I am a man who believes in God. My God is made of liquid fire. My bible, a syringe. My Jesus, a half-man named Lucien Bezel. After a brief span of wandering the streets of Quarantine Zone #2, I was swept up by a revolutionary current. You see, the Zone seemed to be a no-mans land of waste and dishonor, but it didn't take long before I was made aware of the “structure” of things. High above the streets of the city, perched atop a vacant fortress of gla** and steel, lived a man named Lucien Bezel. King of the beasts we'd become. From what I'm told Lucien was a minister, in another life. His words grasped the hearts and minds of the Infected in his Zone in the same way that Sirens ensnared the wayward sailors of mythos. Halfway transformed, Lucien was only partially mortal, which added to his divinity. His eyes were bloodshot, his teeth were rotten, his hair was stringy and sparse. In spite of this, you somehow got the sense that he was a handsome man, he beauty transcending the superficiality of the physical. The majority of his allure came from his tongue, which managed to silence the crowds of monsters. His words were a lullaby that spread a blanket of tranquility over his inherently hostile kingdom. His message was direct, devout, and pure: mankind stood at the brink of an apocalypse, however, contrary to popular belief, we weren't the dirge that caused it…but rather the water that would cleanse it. Lucien was everything that we needed at the time. A figure whom walked among us and truly understood us. A leader. And every good leader has a plan. The selling point of Triz was increased brain functionality, faster reflexes, increased muscular density (strength), clearer sight, balanced coordination, and sharper reasoning. The drug destroyed our bodies, but with each drink we were slowly becoming Gods, or demons…as the news would have you believe. Regardless of your perspective on the matter, the truth was that we were addicts and our potent poison of choice was allowing us to slowly become more than mortal. Just what the doctor ordered. And ordered he did. Somehow, unbeknownst to me, The King of Beasts managed to smuggle vials of Triz into Quarantine Zone #2. MANY vials. I heard a rumor that the vials were getting in here through the school busses somehow. Smart. They say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, well, if that's true, then the way to an addict's heart is through his veins. Our King ensured we never went thirsty. When the Demon of the Sun retired for the evening, and the QUIET Team members were exhausted and at the ends of their shifts, makeshift Speakeasys opened in some of the many vacant buildings of Manhattan. The poison of the day was the drink we all craved…it was the only item on the menu. You may find it difficult to love me if you saw me as I am now. As of writing, I have track marks running up and down both of my arms. I have scars on my fingers and toes from all the needle pricks. I'm rapidly losing weight. My teeth are yellowing, my hair thinning. I'm becoming the thing everyone else on the planet is so afraid of. But you know what? I'M not afraid anymore. There is a certain solace in becoming the “monster”, a certain sense of pride and dignity. An empowerment that expands beyond conventional reasoning. In a world occupied by “us” and “them”…it is actually sort of relaxing to be “them”. Because when you are the one that everyone is running from…you yourself have nothing to fear. Fear. I'm feeling a lot of emotions right now, but fear isn't one of them. We are intelligent, we are strong, we are confident. We are in control. Last night I wrote that “their” world would end, and I meant it. I am writing you now from the subway directly underneath “QUIET Army Outpost Alpha”, the cerebral hub of QUIET operations in Quarantine Zone #2, located in Time Square. By order of the King, we have penetrated the subway and placed explosives at the base of each outpost. Explosives made of ammonium, sodium nitrate, and other common materials that an accelerated mind can piece together to make awfully large boom. There were a few QUIET Teams patrolling the underground, but not enough to stop us. I slid into a uniform of theirs; liberated from one of the mangled bodies we left behind. It hangs loose from my now-bony frame. I have a gas mask over my face, a flak jacket across my chest, an M16 Carbine strapped to my back, six 30-round magazines affixed to my side, and a detonator in my left hand. I'd love to write more, but the anti-human revolution won't start itself. It needs a little push. Thirty seconds to detonation. 29 28 27 26 25 24 23 22 21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 ….Boom. And so it begins.