Document 8 is by far the most unnerving yet. It is a makeshift journal, with pages made from skin and kept together with a multitude of staples and bits of sharpened bone, some parts sewn together with dried veins or entrails. It is written in what appears to be blood. The document itself was found in an abandoned camp, with several infected corpses strewn about, believed to have been killed by cannons near the uninfected border that the caribou were just holding onto at the time.

-
It’s the eighteenth day of the fourth month since the outbreak has begun. Our tribe currently consists of almost eighty ponies, with about five being infected stallions. We’ve managed to stay together, and in control, long enough due to the fact that we black collars outnumber the red and purple collars.

By day, we hunt. We find stallions, we kill them, and we gut, clean, and cook them for food. We find uninfected mares and let them join our ranks, and kill them if they lose control, or fail to follow orders. Every once in a while, we have the tools to infect a stallion without killing him. We pretty much reserve them for food, when we can’t find food during the day. When us black collars can’t find weapons, we take the bones of those we killed, and we lash together spears, knives, and every once in a while, an axe, if we can spare it.

I am our tribe’s journalist. Before Dainn came, I was a reporter, so it’s only fitting that I record what little news there is in Dainn’s fall. We can’t find ink pens anymore, so I simply write with a sharpened bone I jab into some stallion’s arm every once in a while. Unlike most groups of infected mares, who only kill for the sake of killing, we want to bring back some semblance of civilization. Even if it’s a violent one, and we’ve already forsaken our plant-eating habits, it’s better than a society based on sex and rape.

We’ve got a truck, an old pickup we found near a barn in Ponyville. Funny thing, cars. The caribou worked together with the scientists who weren’t already busy fucking to make them. Now we’ll use the same technology that they made to deliver our victory.

I digress. I’m sorry if I get off track, the blood doesn’t exactly come off of the leather, and I can’t make one of our stallions bleed to death, and the leather is too valuable to throw away.

So; a little more about us. Our little tribe began a while ago, in the early days of the outbreak, when we found out that hunting together meant that there was a hell of a better chance of winning a fight than just taking on any stallion we found, even if that was what we wanted to do at the time. A month or so after the outbreak was when we stopped trying to revert back to our old ways of foraging or growing food. After savoring the flesh of those who once controlled us, our old foods tasted disgusting in comparison. We’ve been making our own little society since that day, trying to become nomadic hunters, maybe. It worked well enough for griffons, in their early history, didn’t it? Sure, they didn’t lash together cages with the bones of their fallen prey, but I suppose that makes us innovators.

Our tribe has stuck together for this long, and it’s proven to be worthwhile. We have two trucks, enough weapons for us all to have two at a time, leaving the stallions unarmed. We mostly have weapons we scrounged from old blockades, but some prefer to have weapons made by the tribe.

Our leader is named Raining Fury. She used to be a weather pony, and then those caribou fuckers sliced off her wings and kept them from growing back. Bastards…

Anyways, she bears a hatred for caribou that only Misty could probably match, if we had the fortune to meet her. She will not rest until the very caribou that had the job of clipping her is found dead or made that way. Even then, she has some pretty damn high ambitions for us. We’re moving north, towards the barricades the caribou have set up to maintain quarantine. She says that attacking the whole wall is useless, so we should concentrate our efforts on one point, so we’ll finally be able to breach it. She hopes we can liberate the caribou women, introducing them to the freedom we’ve had the honor of earning.

I can only hope we can avoid the no doubt numerous cannons and machine guns they’ve set up there.

Raining Fury wants the Caribou extinct and wiped from history just as much as anypony else, but I don’t know how seventy five mares can make a difference where hundreds have barely made an impact. We’ve heard rumors of the barricade being close to breaking in certain areas, so Raining Fury hopes to scout out one of these areas, and ram one of our trucks through it.

I personally think that we should just wait. They can’t grow anything up in the cold north, so they’ll eventually have to come to us and find food here or they’ll turn on each other. That’s what most of us are hoping for, anyways. Raining Fury says that it’d be more dangerous if they came to us, but I could care less as long as they go extinct.

-The following contents are on the very last page of the notebook.-
Fucking. Worked.

After so long trying to find a point past their fire and metal, we finally managed to overrun those fuckers. Not after a cannon shell or two tore us to shit, but hey, beggars can’t be choosers.

Raining Fury is dead, and I’m on my way out. Must’ve been some damn powerful bullets in those machine guns, since it blew off one of my legs and left the other hanging by a few strands of muscle and skin. Makes you hungry just reading this, doesn’t it?

I can hear the screams of caribou. Hundreds of them screaming as they’re ripped apart, eaten, and those they used as slaves on the frontline swiftly join our ranks. What used to be the smell of smoke and heat is now replaced with the sweet, sweet smell of bloody messes. My vision might be fading, but I can see miles of corpses and rivers of blood being covered with a soft, welcoming snow.

It’s strange… it’s like there is pain… but I’m numb…

It’s only a matter of time, then we’ll have her. Only a few more battles and soon those who have lived this long will live to see her.

Our princess.
-
The notebook was found nearby a corpse, assumed to be the author of it. Her wounds were grievous, and had it not been for her infection, she would have passed out from the pain, without a doubt. She was not immune to blood loss however, and she perished; only the notebook being clutched in her hand was visible in a reddened pile of snow.

Author's Notes:

Hey look, I'm not entirely dead! Sorry for the long as hell hiatus. Let's just say that obligations are not fun at all, and neither is writer's block.

Fortunately, I have gained back the will to write, and will get to the tenth document, maybe even beyond, if it's the last damn thing I do.

Good to see you all again,

~Senor Butter