Lacuna Expeditionary Logs
[A field journal filled with waterproof paper, bound in a cover of black Bakelite. It exudes an acrid chemical odor.]
Day 2
As ordered, we set about tagging equipment left behind by Teams I-VII. Toussiant took point, followed by Gerson, Bianchi, and Mitchell. Samson and I held the rear. As we approached our destination, these things swooped down on us. Apparitions. It sounds mad, I know, but we were attacked by ghosts.
There are four of us now. Gerson and Mitchell are gone, carried off by those demons, and Toussaint has run ill.
But we have what Marteau sent us for, and all we need to do is get home. Ten thousand dollars, split four ways… we’ll be wealthy beyond our dreams.
—“Expeditionary Team VIII—Log 1,” The Lamplighters League
[A field journal filled with waterproof paper, bound in a cover of black Bakelite. It exudes an acrid chemical odor.]
Day 4
Toussaint died yesterday. Flu got him. A detestable man, but not even he deserved to go like that. The sounds he made—I think that something was… growing… in his lungs. When he coughed, plumes of white powder spewed out.
I’d have put him out of his misery if I could spare the bullet. Instead, I gave him the boot and sent him rolling downhill. Out of sight, out of mind, and we’ve enough on our minds as it is.
We’ll make it back to the Beacon tomorrow, me and Bianchi. She’ll pull through, she’s a tough old bird. And when we do get back, I’ve got a few choice words for Trace Marteau.
—“Expeditionary Team VIII—Log 2,” The Lamplighters League
[A field journal filled with waterproof paper, bound in a cover of black Bakelite. It exudes an acrid chemical odor.]
Day 5
They aren’t coming. Those Marteau bastards have marooned us here—in Hell. After we sent the signal, we decided to fall back to the abandoned truck. We’ve been here for the better part of a day. If they were going to open the Beacon, they’d have done it by now.
I spent my last bullet getting us here. We’re down to our boot knives, and the ghosts are closing in. I can hear them out there—the ones that float and the ones that scuttle, swarming like ants on a dying frog.
They’ll rip us apart, and it will be a mercy. Bianchi started coughing last night.
—“Expeditionary Team VIII—Log 3,” The Lamplighters League
