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    Survivor Files : Day 13: Survivor Files, #15
    Survivor Files : Day 13: Survivor Files, #15
    Survivor Files : Day 13: Survivor Files, #15
    Ebook278 pages4 hours

    Survivor Files : Day 13: Survivor Files, #15

    By Aaron Abilene

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    About this ebook

    A group of YouTubers set out to explore an abandoned cult compound only to get stuck there with the zombies show up.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSyphon Creative
    Release dateSep 11, 2024
    ISBN9798227798152
    Survivor Files : Day 13: Survivor Files, #15

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      Book preview

      Survivor Files - Aaron Abilene

      Survivor Files : Day 13

      Survivor Files, Volume 15

      Aaron Abilene

      Published by Syphon Creative, 2024.

      This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

      SURVIVOR FILES : DAY 13

      First edition. September 11, 2024.

      Copyright © 2024 Aaron Abilene.

      ISBN: 979-8227798152

      Written by Aaron Abilene.

      Also by Aaron Abilene

      505

      505

      505: Resurrection

      Balls

      Dead Awake

      Before The Dead Awake

      Dead Sleep

      Bulletproof Balls

      Carnival Game

      Full Moon Howl

      Donovan

      Shades of Z

      Codename

      The Man in The Mini Van

      Deadeye

      Deadeye & Friends

      Cowboys Vs Aliens

      Ferris

      Life in Prescott

      Afterlife in Love

      Tragic Heart

      Island

      Paradise Island

      The Lost Island

      The Lost Island 2

      The Lost Island 3

      The Island 2

      Pandemic

      Pandemic

      Prototype

      Prototype

      The Compound

      Slacker

      Slacker 2

      Slacker 3

      Slacker: Dead Man Walkin'

      Survivor Files

      Survivor Files: Day 1

      Survivor Files : Day 1 Part 2

      Survivor Files : Day 2

      Survivor Files : On The Run

      Survivor Files : Day 3

      Survivor Files : Day 4

      Survivor Files : Day 5

      Survivor Files : Day 6

      Survivor Files : Day 7

      Survivor Files : Day 8

      Survivor Files : Day 9

      Survivor Files : Day 10

      Survivor Files : Day 11

      Survivor Files : Day 12

      Survivor Files : Day 13

      Survivor Files : Day 14

      Texas

      Devil Child of Texas

      A Vampire in Texas

      The Author

      Breaking Wind

      Yellow Snow

      Dragon Snatch

      Golden Showers

      Nether Region

      Evil Empire

      Thomas

      Quarantine

      Contagion

      Eradication

      Isolation

      Immune

      Pathogen

      Bloodline

      Decontaminated

      TPD

      Trailer Park Diaries

      Trailer Park Diaries 2

      Trailer Park Diaries 3

      Virus

      Raising Hell

      Zombie Bride

      Zombie Bride

      Zombie Bride 2

      Zombie Bride 3

      Standalone

      The Victims of Pinocchio

      A Christmas Nightmare

      Pain

      Fat Jesus

      A Zombie's Revenge

      The Headhunter

      Crash

      Tranq

      The Island

      Dog

      The Quiet Man

      Joe Superhero

      Feral

      Good Guys

      Romeo and Juliet and Zombies

      The Gamer

      Becoming Alpha

      Dead West

      Small Town Blues

      Shades of Z: Redux

      The Gift of Death

      Killer Claus

      Skarred

      Home Sweet Home

      Alligator Allan

      10 Days

      Army of The Dumbest Dead

      Kid

      The Cult of Stupid

      9 Time Felon

      Slater

      Bad Review: Hannah Dies

      Me Again

      Maurice and Me

      The Family Business

      Lightning Rider : Better Days

      Lazy Boyz

      The Sheep

      Wild

      The Flood

      Extinction

      Good Intentions

      Dark Magic

      Sparkles The Vampire Clown

      From The Future, Stuck in The Past

      Rescue

      Knock Knock

      Creep

      Honest John

      Urbex

      She's Psycho

      Unfinished

      Neighbors

      Misery, Nevada

      Vicious Cycle

      Relive

      Romeo and Juliet: True Love Conquers All

      Dead Road

      Florida Man

      Hunting Sarah

      The Great American Zombie Novel

      Carnage

      Marge 3 Toes

      Random Acts of Stupidity

      Born Killer

      The Abducted

      Whiteboy

      Broken Man

      Graham Hiney

      Bridge

      15

      Paper Soldiers

      Zartan (Coming Soon)

      The Firsts in Life (Coming Soon)

      Giant Baby (Coming Soon)

      Table of Contents

      Title Page

      Copyright Page

      Also By Aaron Abilene

      Survivor Files : Day 13

      Sign up for Aaron Abilene's Mailing List

      Also By Aaron Abilene

      Survivor Files : Day 13

      Written by Aaron Abilene

      ––––––––

      The van's engine hummed a low, persistent dirge as we rattled down the forsaken backroads. Shadows clung to the world outside, desperate to creep within, but our spirits, ah, they soared impervious, buoyed by the promise of adventure that lingered just beyond the horizon. Zeke, Becca, Tomas, and I, Jade – we were an eclectic quartet bound together by an insatiable hunger for the untold tales that lay dormant in forgotten crevices of this fractured earth.

      Listen up, Zeke's voice cut through the dense air, his eyes alight with the fire of ambition. We've got one chance to capture what no one else dares to even whisper about. His fingers tapped a rhythmic beat on the steering wheel, commanding attention as if he were a maestro before his orchestra. The footage we're after, he continued, it's not just thrilling—it's vital. It breathes life into the desolate, gives shape to the shadows.

      His words wove a spell, ensnaring my thoughts. The camera nestled on my lap suddenly felt like a sacred relic, a keeper of secrets that only we dared to unveil. We were chasing phantoms, skirting the edges of sanity, all in pursuit of the perfect shot – the one that would sear itself into the minds of those who watched, leaving behind a haunting echo that whispered of worlds unseen.

      Zeke's right, I murmured, my voice barely above the sound of the road beneath us. We're documentarians of the damned, scribes of the spectral. We must tread where others flee, capture the essence of terror itself.

      The van carried us forward, a vessel traversing the chasm between the living and the lost. Each mile was a note in the requiem of the world that had been, each turn a verse in the ballad of what was yet to come. The excitement within us was a living thing, tendrils of anticipation reaching out to caress the unknown with eager fingers.

      And so we drove, drawn ever onward by the siren call of the macabre, ready to etch our names into the annals of the extraordinary, or perhaps, to become mere footnotes in the tome of tragedies penned by forces beyond our ken.

      The shadows within the van seemed to dance as the last rays of sunlight fought a losing battle against the encroaching night. Our hearts beat in tandem with the thrum of the engine, a symphony of anticipation for the darkness we courted with every mile. The road stretched endlessly before us, a ribbon of possibility unfurling through a landscape that had long forgotten the touch of time.

      Let's tread upon a path less traveled, Becca's voice sliced through the silence, a blade of audacious courage. The Bright Path cult compound whispers a tale few have dared to listen to.

      Her suggestion hung in the air, thick with potential and peril. Becca, ever the tempest, eyes alight with the kind of fire that could either forge legends or consume us all. Fearless may she be, but within her burned an insatiable curiosity that compelled us toward the abyss.

      Tomas shifted uneasily, his gaze locked on the rearview mirror as if he might find counsel in the road we'd left behind. I've heard stories, he began, his voice steady as the logic he worshipped, tales that chill the very marrow. Risks abound at such forsaken places, where the veil is thin and the air is heavy with the sins of the past.

      His words were a cold breath on the nape of my neck, an unwelcome omen that sought to temper the heat of our fervor. Tomas, the anchor of rational thought in our sea of wild speculation, often bore the weight of our safety upon his methodical mind. But even he could not deny the magnetic pull of the macabre that drew us inexorably forward.

      Stories are the lifeblood of our craft, I countered, the camera resting like a dormant beast beside me, its lens yearning for the secrets we would unearth. They feed the hungry souls clamoring in the dark, seeking communion with the strange and the sinister.

      Our fates were intertwined with those tales, threads woven into a tapestry of twilight musings and midnight reckonings. And though I knew the gravity of Tomas's concern, it was the allure of the unknown that beckoned us forward, a siren song that promised both revelation and ruin.

      The van lurched onward, carrying us closer to the heart of darkness that was the Bright Path cult compound, each turn in the road a step deeper into the embrace of night.

      The van's engine hummed a funeral dirge as we coasted into the twilight, and in that suspended moment between day and night, Jade's voice sliced through the thickening air with a razor-sharp excitement. Becca's got a point, you know. The Bright Path compound is perfect—like stepping into another world, she enthused, her eyes glimmering with the ghostly light of possibility. Imagine the shadows we'll catch skittering in the corners of our frames, the whispers of the long-gone faithful breathing secrets into our microphones.

      Jade had always been drawn to the peculiar, her mind a wondrous labyrinth where the macabre danced with the divine. And her words, they painted pictures more vivid than the blood-red dusk outside our windows.

      Come on, Tomas, think of the history, Jade continued, leaning forward, a conspiratorial smile playing upon her lips. Her fingers tapped a staccato rhythm on the seat, like the ticking of an ancient clock counting down to an inevitable hour. It's not just about the thrill—it's about touching something timeless, something bigger than us.

      With reluctance as my shadow, I found myself nodding along to her tune. The compound beckoned, a relic of whispers and worn stone, and our morbid curiosity was the key to its unopened doors.

      We huddled together around the dim glow of a laptop screen, the outside world receding behind a veil of encroaching mist. The keys clacked under Becca's expert hands as she summoned tales of the Bright Path from the depths of the web—a litany of horror and fascination unfurling before our eyes.

      Listen to this, Becca murmured, her voice barely above the sound of our collective breathing. They say that the leader, Elijah Bright, spoke prophecies of the end times, that he convinced his followers to shed their earthly ties for a promise of salvation. Her finger traced the grainy photograph of a man with hollow eyes—a shepherd leading his flock to a celestial slaughter.

      Here, she clicked on another link, rumors of unspeakable rituals, of nights filled with screams that echoed off these very walls. When the authorities finally came, they found it abandoned, as if the cultists had simply vanished into thin air.

      Tomas interjected, his tone heavy with unease. Or perhaps something made them disappear. Something still lurking in the compound's shadowy embrace.

      A shiver ran down my spine, a silent specter whispering doubts into my ear. Yet, the allure of the story pulled taut the strings of my resolve. There was beauty in the darkness, a perverse serenity within the decay of the compound that called to me, inviting me to peel back the layers of its desolate heart.

      Tomorrow, we breach the gates of oblivion, I declared, each word a solemn vow to unravel the mystery of the Bright Path. Little did I know, the shadows were listening, biding their time until we crossed the threshold into their unhallowed sanctuary.

      I hefted the last of the camera equipment into the van, the metallic clinks and zips of our gear slicing through the silence that hung over us like a shroud. My hands, though steady on the surface, betrayed an internal tremor—a quiet acknowledgment of the venture that lay ahead. Zeke's eyes met mine, a glint of determination mirrored in his gaze as he hoisted a tripod over his shoulder.

      Every moment, he said, voice low but fervent, every whisper in the dark, we will capture it all. His charisma was a beacon, unwavering even as we prepared to delve into the heart of a forsaken place.

      Becca meticulously organized the lights, each bulb and battery a promise to illuminate the secrets that slumbered within the Bright Path compound. She worked with the precision of a surgeon, her fearless nature cloaked in the guise of preparation. I knew she thrived on this—the thrill of shedding light where shadows reigned supreme.

      Imagine what waits for us there, she mused, the corner of her mouth lifting ever so slightly.

      Tomas adjusted his glasses, surveying the cache of vlogging paraphernalia with a critical eye. He cataloged every item, ensuring nothing was left to chance, though I could see the cogs turning behind his analytical stare. Reservations lingered there, unspoken yet heavy with implication.

      Let's hope the only spirits we encounter are the ones trapped in our lenses, Tomas muttered, half-joking but with an edge of sincerity that belied his usual composure.

      Jade, ever the spark to Becca's flame, chuckled as she tested the audio equipment. Her laughter was a flickering candle amidst encroaching darkness, a sound that danced upon the precipice of foreboding and fascination.

      Ghostly echoes and spectral sights—our viewers will hang on every gasp, Jade said, her words woven with an eagerness that matched the macabre allure of our destination.

      Together, we packed with a meticulousness born of experience, each lens and microphone an extension of our shared resolve. The van became our vessel, laden with tools to pry open the mysteries of that abandoned sanctuary of zealots and phantoms.

      As the final latch snapped shut, sealing our cargo of electronic sentinels, we stood at the edge of a journey thirteen days long. Our breaths mingled in the crisp air, small clouds of anticipation that drifted upward into the twilight.

      Are we truly ready? I asked aloud, not seeking an answer but giving voice to the collective thrill that pulsed through our veins.

      More than ever, Zeke replied, his hand finding the van's ignition, the engine roaring to life with a promise of impending revelation.

      The compound beckoned, a siren call to our curious souls, and with each mile we traversed, the world behind us dimmed. Shadows crept closer, whispering of the unknown horrors that awaited. Yet, it was not fear that quickened my pulse—it was a hunger for the darkness, an insatiable desire to confront whatever nightmares might bloom within those desolate walls.

      And so, with hearts ablaze and cameras primed, we embarked upon the road to the Bright Path, ignorant of the true cost such knowledge might exact.

      The van slithered through the landscape, a serpent winding its way across a world that had long forgotten the caress of humanity. We passed through desolate towns where empty buildings leered like hollow-eyed skulls, through forests where the trees stood sentinel, gnarled fingers scraping at a sky grown weary with silence.

      Will it ever end? Jade mused from behind her camera, her voice not quite concealing the edge of intoxicating dread that sharpened each word. The lens captured the slow decay of the world outside, a visual elegy to all we had lost.

      Everything ends, I murmured, more to myself than to her, even roads. But this one stretched on interminably, an asphalt ribbon binding us to our fate.

      Zeke drove with relentless determination, his grip on the steering wheel betraying none of the fatigue that must surely have gnawed at his bones. His eyes, bright with the zeal that had first drawn us to him, never strayed from the path ahead.

      Every mile brings us closer, he said, as if in answer to the unvoiced question that lingered between us. Closer to the truth.

      Or to madness, Tomas countered quietly from beside him, his analytical mind no doubt cataloging every risk. Yet, even he could not disguise the tremor of fascination that underpinned his caution.

      The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of fire and blood—a portent, perhaps, of the night to come. Time seemed a fickle creature, now racing, now creeping by, as we crossed state lines and weathered storms, both meteorological and emotional.

      And then, there it was—the Bright Path cult compound, standing defiantly against the encroaching dark, a monolith to man's fervent folly. The gates loomed before us, wrought iron twisted into forms that whispered of secrets and sins too terrible to bear the light of day.

      Are you filming this, Jade? Becca asked, her voice vibrant with a thrill that echoed my own pulse.

      Always, came the reply, almost inaudible over the pounding of my heart as we disembarked.

      Electricity crackled in the air, a silent symphony that played upon our senses as we beheld the ominous silhouette of the compound. This was our grail, the culmination of every whispered legend and every half-remembered nightmare. It promised answers—dark, delicious truths that lay just beyond those forbidding barriers.

      Let's find our story, Zeke declared, his words a benediction for the damned—or perhaps a challenge to the darkness that awaited us. We were ill-prepared for what secrets might spill forth from those abandoned halls. Yet, in this moment, ignorance was our bliss, and fear, our most cherished companion as we stepped into the shadow of the Bright Path, ready to embrace whatever horrors lurked within.

      The van door creaked open, its protest a lonely cry swallowed by the vast emptiness around us. My boots hit the gravel with a crunch that seemed unnaturally loud in this hush, a sound that ricocheted against the walls of the compound like the chime of a clock counting down to midnight. Becca was beside me, her breaths shrouded clouds in the cold air, and I watched as a small smile played upon her lips—a harbinger of the reckless delight she found in these macabre escapades.

      Can you feel it? she whispered, more to the spirits she imagined lurking than to any of us alive.

      Tomas's steps were measured, his eyes scanning the perimeter with the precision of a man who knew too much yet said too little. We have to be careful, he murmured, but there was no fear in his voice, only the caution of an old soul worn weary by too many unseen battles.

      Jade, camera in hand, danced ahead like a wraith chasing the shadows. Her laugh tinkled through the air, brittle and bright, a stark contrast to the gloom that clung to the place like cobwebs.

      As we approached the entrance, a chill slithered up my spine, each step forward an invocation to the unspeakable to make itself known. The compound stood as silent as the grave, its secrets hidden behind doors that hadn't swung on their hinges in years—doors that now waited for us, patient and expectant.

      Are you scared, Zeke? Tomas asked, though I could tell from the glint in his eye he already knew the answer.

      Only fools are fearless, I replied, the words a mantra against the unease gnawing at my insides.

      Before us, the door loomed, its paint peeling like scabs from old wounds. I reached out, my fingers grazing the wood, and pushed. It groaned open, a reluctant invitation into the abyss beyond.

      Let's uncover what they left behind, Jade said, her voice a mix of glee and something darker, like the echo of a nightmare half-remembered upon waking.

      We stepped over the threshold, our silhouettes cutting through the threshold of light and darkness. The air inside was stale, thick with the scent of decay and the weight of stories untold. Our lights pierced the murk, casting long, twisted shadows that danced along the walls with a life of their own.

      Did you hear that? Becca's voice cut through the silence, sharp and sudden.

      We all stilled, ears straining. There was a sound, distant yet distinct—a shuffling, a soft dragging of feet that spoke of languid despair. My heart thumped in my chest, a drumbeat heralding the approach of something otherworldly, or perhaps merely human and broken. But here, at the Bright Path compound, humanity and horror were intertwined, indistinguishable.

      Zeke, Tomas breathed, what if—

      Shh, I silenced him. Let's find out.

      And with that, we delved deeper into the bowels of the forsaken sanctuary, unaware that with each step, we drew closer not just to the truths we sought, but also to the dreadful realization that some doors, once opened, can never be closed again.

      Behind us, the door creaked shut with the finality of a tomb sealing shut.

      As I steered our weathered van onto the gravel path, we were greeted by the towering gates of the Bright Path cult compound. My heart thrummed with a fervor that bordered on reverence—what secrets did this forsaken sanctuary hold? The others, too, seemed to buzz with an energy that was almost electric, their eyes wide with the promise of the unknown.

      Wow, Jade whispered, her voice barely above the crackling of leaves beneath our tires.

      Creepy as hell, Tomas muttered, and I could not help but agree.

      With a final shudder of the engine, I parked the van in the shadow of those looming iron barriers, a stark silhouette against the dying light. We spilled out into the chill air, each of us armed with a camera—a talisman against the encroaching stillness that wrapped itself around the compound like a shroud.

      Are you getting this? Becca asked, her tone laced with a thrill that only the scent of adventure could provoke. Her camera lens drank in the scene voraciously, capturing every warped bar and rusted adornment. In this desolate place, she was queen—fearless and eager to pry into the corners of the world left unspoken.

      Every eerie inch, I replied, my voice steady despite the quiver of anticipation gnawing at my insides. My hands were sure as they adjusted the focus, recording our first tentative steps toward the unknown. There was beauty in decay, a symphony in silence, and I intended to compose a requiem for the lost souls of Bright Path.

      Zeke, always the quiet one, nodded solemnly, his eyes betraying a depth of emotion he seldom voiced. The camera in his hands was an extension of his own gaze, seeking out the shadows where stories festered, waiting to be told.

      Can you feel it? Jade's question hung in the air, a specter of words that seemed to echo off the skeletal trees surrounding us. It's like... they're still here.

      Let's find out, I said, the gate groaning its assent as we pushed past the threshold, the metal wailing like a ghost disturbed from eternal slumber.

      Our footsteps crunched upon the gravel, the sound a staccato beat to the rhythm of our quickening pulses. With every step deeper into the compound, the atmosphere thickened, and I could swear the very air whispered secrets meant for no living ear.

      Cut there, I commanded, a director orchestrating

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