December 8th, 4:27 to 6:53 PM RST

Well, I've explored pretty much every nook and cranny of this here facility that I woke up in, and here's what I've found.

First, at least half of the place is locked down, with giant metal doors openable only by keycard. Ordinarily I'd have spent some time trying to find a card to get into them, but considering all of the card readers are non-functional, it wouldn't do me any good. Most of the doors have no indication what's behind them anyways, so I'm going to go out on a limb here and speculate that it's probably nothing I want anything to do with.

The other half, however, was accessible. And lemme tell ya, Bob- I found some pretty interesting stuff.

First thing I found after wandering aimlessly down a few hallways was some sort of cafeteria. On one side there was a kitchen. Unsurprisingly, nothing electronic was working. But! But but but! I did find a pantry! and it's stocked with non-perishables and freeze-dried stuff galore! According to the packaging, it all has about ...seventeen years left before it reaches its "best by" date. Considering the timeline for my remaining life expectancy is probably measurable in hours (or days, if I borrow your optimism, Bob), seventeen years seems perfectly acceptable. If I limit myself to 3 packages a day, I have enough food for about....

Hang on. I actually have to go count this.

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Okay, so, it appears that if I stick to 3 meals a day, I've got six or so months of food supplies. There's only about a dozen varieties, so I'm sure I'll be utterly sick of them by the time they run out. Hopefully we will have found a more permanent and sustainable home for ourselves by then, eh Bob?

Also, strangely enough, the sinks still put out water, and it isn't discolored, doesn't smell funny, and doesn't glow in the dark. Yes, of course I checked that too. Last thing I need is to survive the end of the world (and avoid a murderbot) only to die horribly when radium-flavored tap water melts a hole through my duodenum.

Anyway.

I'm still gonna boil it. Somehow. The gas ranges don't light or seem to have fuel, so that means building a fire first. The cafeteria's got a ton of wood in the tables and chairs, so I have fuel. I just need a way to light it. 

And that's where discovery numero dos comes in.

[Historian's note: "numero dos" derives from a dead language called [REDACTED] that predated the compulsory adoption of Remspeak by the remaining nations of the world. It is translated as "number two", as in, the second in a series being counted.]

Staff lockers, Bob. Lots and LOTS of staff lockers. And most of them are full of stuff. Some of that stuff is even useful, if you can believe it. I found spare clothes, well, spare uniforms, and a lot of them. They're all jumpsuits in this drab mint green color, with the logo for some company on the back and some numbers on the front. I guess this Rembrandt company used to own this place, and these were what the people who worked here wore. Maybe the numbers on the front are employee ID numbers? Who knows. I took a couple about my size anyways. Better to have and not need, eh Bob?

Oh, and I found a lighter. Well, a couple lighters. Apparently, people in the future (present?) still use the same old flint ones you flick. Didn't expect that. I also found some tools, and a tool belt, and a flashlight, and a crowbar. There's still more to search, so maybe I'll get even luckier.

I'll keep looking.

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A GUN! I FOUND A GUN!

I know! I can't believe my luck either. What are the odds?!

Upon further inspection, Bob, there seems to be a problem with it, though. Its locked, best I can tell. There's a thumbprint pad on the grip, and I can't get the magazine to release or pull the slide, so I'm guessing it's biometrically tied to the person who used to own it. That's a thing, right Bob? Biometric gun locks? I'm gonna assume that's what's going on, because I otherwise have no explanation for why I, a seasoned veteran of many a range day, can't cock this Glock.

...I can hear you snickering on the other side of this page, Bob. Hush. You crawl out of a pod in some godforsaken factory after the end of the world and see if YOU don't have trouble with basic physical tasks. Punk.

I don't mean that.

Please don't leave me.

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I! HAVE MADE FIRE!

I'm betting you won't understand that reference, Bob. And that's fine. It's far before your time. It was almost before mine.

[Historian's note: The author in this section appears to be referencing [REDACTED], a film released at the beginning of the century, in which [PLOT SUMMARY REMOVED AT THE REQUEST OF THE COPYRIGHT HOLDER]

I've boiled up some water and am making my first of what I assume to be many meals in this strange place. On the menu for this evening is freeze-dried lasagna, which hopefully tastes a lot more appealing in execution than it sounds in theory.

I'd offer you a plate, but considering you're a non-corporeal figment of my imagination, that seems a bit... unnecessary.

I'm sure you understand.

Once food is done, I'm going to try and see what I can do about better shelter than the middle of a big room filled with furniture. I have no idea if I'm the only person left alive, but I DO know at least one sentient homicidal android is wandering around outside, and I'd prefer to do what I can to keep as much between it and me as I can.

Not sure it'll do me a bit of good, but hey, what the hell else do I have to do right now?