User talk:MorthBabid/Archive of NTlog
January 25, 2006
I almost gagged when the offical NecroNet report from a fellow YRC co-worker reached my mobile phones text message display. 415 zombies were currently crowding about Bale Mall in what many are calling the "Mall Tour": The latest catchphrase for the latest unique zombie horde phenomena.
If I wasn't currently in the thick of it all, I wouldn't have believed the numbers to be true.
But the evidence is before my eyes as I slowly sip my coffee and punch this in now. Four-hundred strong and growing, sadly. The survivors here still outnumber the horde by more than three times that, and several factions have put aside their personal vendettas to help defend Bale Mall. If I didn't know any better, I'd say things were ready for a better change in Yagoton.
But I do know better. The hatred is still there. It's simply been refocused and pushed towards an enemy that you can't taunt, that you can't mock, and who you can't frighten into submission. When the zombie hordes begin to become confused or simply too "hungry" after the defense, they'll move on. Or we'll lose Bale Mall and Yagoton will become another swatch of hell on earth. But Caiger Mall defended itself...we will too.
But I know better. I know better than to think that Caiger Mall, even after the famous Siege of Caiger Mall, is a utopia. Hatred never dies, it just changes hands. Even as this battle wages on, I see the signs. As I bustle about giving medical aid, I overhear the taunts and curses of one faction to another. As I help rebuild the barricades I see the dark looks some of the anti-science groups give me, even as they help me in our mutual work. And when I run out to hit the nearest lab for syringes to help add to our ranks and decrease the undead's grip, I see the graffiti screaming for all of Malton to rise up and burn the Yagoton Revivification Clinic.
I know better, for I know that I am a marked man: A healer whom others wish to harm. And in a city where marked men never truly die?
I know better than to think that will ever change.
January 19, 2006
The Amish Liberation Front. I couldn't believe it. They were back, though in smaller numbers, and slowly stalking their way through Bale Mall. I haven't had the unlucky pleasure of their company yet, but with these old players returning to Yagoton, things should have looked even more grim for my fellows and I at the slightly clinic-less Yagoton Revivification Clinic.
On the contrary...this is the best damn day I've had in a long time.
My mobile phone rang in the middle of the night. The fact didn't bother me since I hadn't been sleeping well. The half-memories from my recent visit back to undeath, brief though it may have been, came to me in living dreams that dashed any chance of sleep. I flipped open the text message window, expecting the usual repots: Wounded fleeing latest overrun hospital, infection rates slowing any attempt at forming a counter-attack, more fallen to The Neon Knights, latest attempt to secure St.Swithun failed. The usual messages I've been getting in the last nine days.
But this time it was different. This time it was good news. I could only stare bleary-eyed at the message my collegue had sent, seeming innoculous at first:
-Morth, D.C sez Hi frm 1 ZH2anthr; Check NT memo. NN is ONLINE-
D.C is an ex-zombie subject of mine I had a run-in when he was less friendly state, who'd I'd kept tabs on as a sort of hobby. He'd been making quite a name for himself around Caiger Mall as a Zombie Hunter and frequent healer. His long-term zombification (which ended only recently) seems to have left him with a speech impediment and odd habit of cutting at zombies with a kitchen knife. That was just the fluff of the message.
But the NecroNet being fully up? I flipped up my DNA Extractors message system, and drunk in the words for myself. It was true. Limited capacity, but fully functional with the proper NecroTech-graced passwords.
I gave out a "YAHOO" that seemed to startle almost fifty of the nearby survivors who semi-slumbered next to me at that. This couldn't have come at a better time. The ability to generate new syringes was desperatly needed, as searching for them was a poor habit. Yagoton Revivification Clinic had just had it's prayers answers.
Now I really can't sleep. I'll submit my request for a personal password right after this, and then hunt around for a portable generator and some fuel. We NEED syringes. The zombies are trashing Yagoton. It's time to cure this town.
I can't wait to tell my other colleges the good news!
January 11, 2006
I don't know how anyone managed to find time to snap a syringe into my shambling form, but apparently they did. It seems I was drawing quite a bit of attention anyway. In my undead state, plauged by clouded memories of life, I seemed to have been attacking zombies infected with Brain Rot whom on some level I must have still been able to identify. My lab coat is tattered with bullet holes and claw marks, though my DNA Extractor seems undamaged. It's log shows that I managed to upload the data before...dreaming again, and the auto-signoff kicked in a few hours later. I was apparently quite busy...I can almost recall it all more clearly than before. Curious.
But now isn't the time for study of flesh and dreams.
It seems my colleges predictions from before about the state of Malton's spreading central decay were quite on the money; The infection was indeed spreading faster. What they didn't expect was for it to spread as fast as it has. Yagoton has become a war-zone. Hinks Crescent Police Dept and many buildings near the revivification clinic's primary outposts have been overrun. The Abandoned and others fight on, flinging bullets and saying prayers. I've been making mercy runs, bringing in medical aid, helping with barricades...even flinging a hasty bullet or two. It's a desperate rush for survival.
Things are not looking good. The availibility of syringes still have not improved, and the last count of the number of patients we have is well over two-hundred. The most we've ever had. The Neon Knights keep saying that things will "get better", and continue to persecute the clinic. They seem to be trying to breed a sense of complatency about the zombies, as if they're now a part of nature...though the clinic is to blame for such a state, according to their propaganda.
Don't we have enough targets to shoot at right now? If I see them (and if they'd put the damn gun down) I'd ask: "Who is the bigger threat here...the undead trying to rip out your throat, or the guy with a scientific background trying to cure this plauge who's asking for your help?"
Come to think of it, they'd probably just shoot us both.
It doesn't matter. I don't care what The Neon Knights or anyone else thinks, for that matter. I'm still a scientist, and perhaps a foolish idealist. I'll heal the sick be they friend or foe, and I'll cure the undead regardless of whom they were in life. I joined Yagoton Revivification Clinic not simply because of their goal, but because of their ethics as well. No politics, no red tape...just get in and help who you can.
The brain rotted are to be pittied, and prevented from harming others until we can find a way to cure them as well. I've taken down such zombies, knowing they'd simply groggigly rise and perhaps wander off when bored. I've had to inorder to protect my friends and patients. But I don't think I'm ready to shoot at a living human being. Even if they want to shoot me.
Humanity has enough problems in Malton without me adding to them: I'm providing a service here and thats that.
January 8, 2006
They found me.
Multiple gunshot wounds. I'm in shock as I punch this in, fingers numb. Loosing blood fast. I probably have...fifteen, ten minutes before I either pass out or have a critical pulminary failure. Five bucks on pulminary failure. It won't be long. Its ironic how this is less painful than the infection I recoverd from, even though this is a far more critical wound.
It was The Neon Knights, to anyone who finds this on my corpse...walking or otherwise. If I have not uploaded whatever is logged in here to my NecroTech employers and their online network, please do so for me. The scanner should register my thumbprint regardless if I'm dead or undead. Preferably you do so for your own saftey when I'm former.
....The problem with having a doctorate in the medical field is that when things like this happen, you know EXACTLY whats going on. And as a NecroTech employee, I also know EXACTLY whats going to happen afterwards. First rigor mortis, then 'vigor mortis'. I know each step, each symptom, each stage of dreaming an afflicted sleeper will take.
What I wouldn't give for a bit of ignorance right now.
Ignorance. The Neon Knights are wrapped in it. There was no conversation. No trade of ideas, or proofs, or attempts at even a mock trail. There was just the smile. So similar to Mr.Shotgun of IZONE those days long past. That same look of bliss, of dedication to what they believed to be a worthy cause. Bullets flying around, screams as survivors dove for cover.
I just froze up. I couldn't shake the similarity. The casual way he annouced to all that I was a member of the Yagoton Revivification Clinic, and had to pay for my crimes. I didn't even hear half of it. I knew what he had come to do before the fool even opened his mouth and raised his pistol.
Getting harder to see. Probably on five minute margin, starting to have chest spasms...heart is straining to make up with the rapid blood loss. Looks like puliminary failure in a few. Looks like I owe myself five bucks. I'm going to go to sleep soon...going to re-enter the dream of undeath once more.
You MUST know this: The dead DO indeed dream. Whatever Memories of Life a strong mind can hold onto at the moment of death DO carry on and influence a human being in an undead state! This is humanities salvation, the true reason why the Yagoton Revivification Clinic strives ever onward. We seek to cure this plauge, we do not torment or cause those in life to exist ever onward in a cycle. We can BREAK IT! END IT! Don't listen to those neon-hued lies! The Neon Knights are the anthema of hope!
We can all be saved from the unending dream of undeath! Resist the ignorance, embrace trut
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January 6, 2006
The situation has not improved since I last regained conciousness. Thankfully I had not entered into the dream of undeath once more, but instead found myself at Catherine General Hospital. Apparently I had staggered in, cried out for a medic, sputtered some blood and pus from the mouth and then promptly fainted away. It was only due to the diligent dedicated post-op treatment at the hand of a few survivors and a trained surgical staff that I was able to pull through my infection as quickly as I did.
But while my health has improved, it seems Malton has begun to show worse signs of decay.
The true scope of this was confered shortly after my rehibilitation during a brief meeting at Bale Mall with various individuals who have proven their worth and intelligence to the community of Yagoton. It seems that a certain dedicated group that has been tracking the zombie infection (alongside our NecroTech employers) have come to rather dark news.
While a level of zombie activity exists in almost all areas of Malton to some degree, the human population has in the past mostly kept the high concentrations barricaded in the center of Malton by Ridleybank and a few other areas. However, that has recently changed. What began as a four block hotzone in the secure center of Malton has now degenerated into a rotting core within the city that is slowly spreading.
From Brooke Hills to Galbraith Hills, to Roftwood and Huntley Heights...an entire four by three block area has been declared the new central hotzone of Malton. Old problem spots that were once the initial hotspots of the first outbreaks, Dakerstown and New Arkham, are developing dangerous hot-zones around their fringes as well.
It couldn't have come at a worst time. With the search recovery of syringes seeming to be harder and harder to come by, and with delusional Death cultists and The Neon Knights waging war against the very people striving to save humanity, coupled with my own personal disaster that occured at the Hinks Crescent Police Dept, human resources for properly curing this infection (NOT simply putting it down for a time) are streched thin. And so is moral, for myself and those around me.
All I could do after that meeting was try to gather what supplies I could and slowly work my way to the clinic. I pass a few fellow members of the Yagoton Revivification Clinic on the way, and all seemed to need my medical assistance. They tell me that the 'patient' list at the primary clinic is up to one hundred and sixty four. A few weeks ago we'd have handled that many in the span of a few days, like we did with the 'Holiday Hordes'. But now? We're lucky if we all of us together find enough syringes to heal fifty.
All I see as I walk to the clinic is the demoralized faces of my wounded companions, and the paranoid and suspicious glances of a few survivors confused by the lies of The Neon Knights. The only thing keeping us going is the clinic itself. It's like a pet project, a zen focus for our minds and wills. We keep striving, and striving, and try not to think about the spreading plauges new footholds. Try not to think about the future. Try not to think at all.
The most frightening thing I find myself unable to stop contemplating on my way back is just how zombie-like we can become without the infection of the undead running in our veins: The long weight and stress of surviving day to day can do that far more viciously than the sharpest zombie tooth or nail.
January 4, 2006
Hubris, hubris, hubris...pride goeth before a fall.
So does blood pressure. T-cell count. Heart rate slowing as the infection takes hold. It was only two of them. Just two against four. But when you're battling an enemy that can rot you apart from inside with a single snaggle-toothed snap, it quickly becomes four against countless million spreading pathogens from an Infectious Bite. If my friends from the Yagoton Revivification Clinic don't send a medic soon...
Perhaps The Neon Knights will stumble upon me first. Ironic how they might be doing me a favor. Perhaps there is some mercy in swift death, even if it is a bitter mercy. But a medkit or syringe would be far better tools. Like those idiots even know how to use either of them. I took the last two zombies outside down myself, letting fly buckshot and bullet...and that'd be my reward. A mercy killing from a bunch of delusional fanatics. "Golly gee whiz, Mister Scientist, you done sure shot them zeds good...but we don't trust yer helpful clinic not one bit so suck on mah boomstick, hey-yuck yuck yuck!".
God. I don't want to enter that dream again. I can't afford the risk to those around me. My only saving grace is that the Hinks Crescent Police Dept is so close to the clinic...if worse comes to worse perhaps my colleges will save me. I've text messaged for help, but it may come too late. Or perhaps the more paranoid or ignorant survivors will simply see that executing myself and the others will be far more merciful than having me die likes this...and begin my dream anew.
I can feel it slipping over my mind, this blanket of infection. Dear God, don't let me dream again. Not again of hunger and slavered mouth wailing, of struggling under a blanket of cotton, striving to let whatever Memories of Life I have left reach through to my shambling form. More have come. They're pounding at the barricades. They're hungry. They're dreaming of our flesh.
Please don't let me dream with them again.
December 21, 2005
Vidi, Veni, Medicor.
I couldn't help but declare this after many of us at the Yagoton Revivification Clinic slowly tended to over one hundred and seventy five zombified patients. They came in a sudden influx that frightened many, but the good folks of the clinic rolled up their sleeves and started using syringes and noting DNA Extraction information at the first sign of Brain Rot. That number is now far humbler, with the brain rotters mostly shambling away into the snow and the rest patiently waiting in the church.
Oyi. The church. Some poor fools had barricaded the church in a few days before the hordes came...we'd asked them nicely before, re-did the replaced spray painted signs and gave kind warnings and advice where to better seek shelter. But they didn't listen. I don't doubt that when the large horde finally clawed through the flimsy barricades those hapless fools built that in their undead violence that those the bastards were infected and brought down as well. Perhaps now they'll listen. After we revivify them, of course.
But truly, it is safe to proclaim that "We Came, We Saw, We Cured" without any sense of hubris. Even with the hunt for proper materials to even cobble together a syringe, much less find one well stocked, we've all done something we can truly be proud of. It's hard to spend that much time and effort on what is often simply a search that ends in one's own exhaustion. Airdropped crates have also been coming in with more supplies, though we've yet to see any goodies from our NecroTech employers find their way admist these packages. Hopefully we'll be fine for awhile longer.
Good heavens...I'd quite forgotten untill this moment that it's almost already Christmas here. I should seek out our founding Clinic's fathers and wish them well this season...though it might be seen as a bit of an undeeded blessing. In Malton, no one is doing THAT well.
But with the clinic running as it is? We're certantly doing alot better than we were.
December 15, 2005
I'm amazed how much a man can change in so short a period of time. A single threat, a single bite, a single microscopic fleck of disease can do such horrific and powerful things to a human being.
This pistol has been my companion in these darker hours. Training, more than anything, guided by an organized few. The Abandoned frequently help identify zombies with brain rot whom we use as target practice. I've gotten quite skilled at it, enough so to properly put down one of these poor uncurable creatures long enough for them to be removed from the area...and perhaps one day be captured when this plauge is finally cured.
But the pistol has also been my salvation, my hidden zen place to ignore these changes of which I speak. Every bullet is a tiny bit of focus, every wiff of gunfire is another time when I do not think of the horrific dream memories I carry within me. But I have mastered the pistol...and now it is time to master these dreams
I am now read to record...perhaps confess, even...the events that occured at an unspecified time after the 9th of November, the day of the Wray Heights insertion that was supposed to bring myself and a team of scientists and military units into the area.
We don't know who or how they built those makeshift explosives, but it seems that whatever genius did so ended their own life in the blast, for I have not seen their recipe used elsewhere. A crude RPG slammed into the side of the helicopter, injuring many. If it was not for the medical skills of the other surviving crew, many would have lost their lives. I myself thank Doctor Wang for educating me in the required skills of proper medical Diagnosis and First Aid during the uncountable time we spend afterwards together.
We made good progress, at first. Collecting DNA Extractor data to eventually upload to the home office. Gathering syringes (back in the day when they were far easier to find) and FAKs, and treating who we could. But without a stronger military presence, most of whom were still trying to locate and bring back from the dead, we were outnumbered and surrounded by violently paranoid survivors and Death cultists.
I've heard Wray Heights isn't quite the party town it was in my time. In my time...people killed people as the war of the dead raged on. He called himself Mr.Shotgun. We all looked up as he announced it, shotgun aptly in hand as he steped into the building. He had a blissful smile, one that seemed to cause others to smile in turn. And then he said: "IZONE is here to free you." I didn't have a chance to ask who or what IZONE was before I caught a load of buckshot in my chest.
I didn't die from that, of course. No, I had the distinct pleasure of watching the following gunfire flow and bullets be exchanged as I bled to death. Perhaps there was more mercy in that form of death. I blacked out, content to die and know no more.
But I would know more. I remember it still, a hazy clog of some twisted undeath and my own Memories of Life. I rose, discarded in the street alongside my still-smiling murderer and a few of his victims. I remember hammering at the barricades, some dim memory trying to open the door and re-enter the NecroTech building. But my fresh corpse paws could not weaken them.
So I wandered.
The haze muddled my mind so much that I often paused in mid-action, simply slowly coming back to semi-conciousness to find myself leaning against the walls of yet another NecroTech building, stopped in mid-action of trying to enter once more. But it never worked. I simply kept heading northish, far away from Wray Heights.
The last part of my dream was about a church. I was fustrated. I was fustrated because I entered the church, but only because I wished to reach the NecroTech building I dimly identified in the distance by some quirkish mix of my Memories of Life...but I felt the haze coming, and instinctually knew that I would stumble and haze admist a horde of my undead damned near me.
Pain woke me. You must understand, that as one of the dead? There is no pain. No fear, no joy. But there is anger, rage, confusion, and though I myself did not seemed obsessed with it...a hunger. But never any pain. This is why the shock snapped my eyes open so. The dull throbbing pain of a standard injection stung at the base of my neck, my hand snapping to it in an instant.
The pain woke me, but the sound of bullets whizzing past my head truly made me alive. "Damn rotter!" I heard someone yell in the darkened building. I turned, realizing that a zombie with severe brain rot was heading for me, his badly bullet ridden face slavering with hunger. Another well-placed bullet put him down, splattering my stunned self with ichor. I sat there, dazed and unable to move.
Strong hands grabbed me. I never saw the man's face: He seemed more made out of weapons, medikits, and syringes strapped to his body by military webbing than made out of flesh. "Welcome to Yagoton Clinic..." He grunmped. "...now get yer ass outta here. This ain't no safehouse." He pushed me in the direction of what had once been a dream...The local NecroTech building.
And here I am. Changed once again. Now I am the one loaded up with medical kits, syringes, and ammo, bearing a flak jacket and backpack loaded with my prizes and plenty of books. Now I am the one breaking down the damnable barricades upon the clinic, slapping a syringe into the nearest poor soul with expert aim, blasting 'Rotters away...and then looking down upon the confused bastard as I tend to their wounds, and tell them "Welcome to Yagoton Clinic. Now get the hell inside".
Am I a monster, now? Have I lost all feeling due to this? Is taking the temporary life of the undead more torture than letting them spread? I have seen men turn into beasts and feed upon men, and I have seen worst monsters instead turn upon their fellow living rather than help cleanse the damned. When will it end?
To this I do not know. I happened upon a spray that read nothing more than 'Job 14, 14 - 14,16'. I recognized the lines as being from Job of the Holy Bible:
"If a man die, shall he live again? All the days of my appointed time will I wait, till my change come. / Thou shalt call, and I will answer thee: Thou wilt have a desire to the work of thine hands. / For now thou numberest my steps: Dost thou not watch over my sin?"
I have never been a religious man. But somewhere, in those lines, I feel I found something of an answer to my questions.
December 08, 2005
My trip to Bale Mall to talk with "Logan X" went better than I could have expected. A complete dialouge has opened up, and progress has been made. It seems their group The Order was being angered by the fact that many violent and dangerous persons who had been killed, and thus turned into zombies, were then being revived and let lose whole at the Yagoton Revivification Clinic.
In response to this, they protested in a mostly non-violent manner, but their messages must have been muddled by frightened survivors. They had not, as it had been declared, order to kill clinic...but rather any and all zombies who showed up at the clinic 'itself. This order was soon revoked, alongside the barricade order, by their leader. A few confused survivors probably saw them doing this and simply mimicked their behavior without thinking, making the problem expand. And so, a dialouge has begun. They wish for the clinic to begin a 'Do Not Revive' blacklist of sorts. The issue has currently been presented and debated over before a choice is made.
On a personal note, I'm against the idea. The Yagoton Revivification Clinic has been an open door in terms of revivification and admitance of help. It's not a TRUE group as much as it is an agreed place where those who wish to do good can focus their efforts. The clinic brought me back from the darkest of nightmares and picked me up into their ranks without question or request...I simply happened to have the talents and the will to stay.
But, I presented the issue in a fair and balanced manner, showing forth both sides of the issue. It's up to my fellows to decide now. I don't think such a list would do much good, as while syringes are becoming hard to find, there are always those unassociated with the clinic who would blindly revive someone who will then rip and shoot at them when their back is turned.
But only time will tell. Tonight, I rest after a long trip back from Bale Mall. My piles of first aid kits are already reduced by three-fourths. I found a policeman near death in the Hinks Crescent Police Dept, a stop I made by chance. I brought him back from the brink of death and was scurrying away in record time...I had a clinic to get back to, after all.
And a few days ago I was worried about being bored! Ha!
December 07, 2005
Paranoia is an infectious disease, worse than the samples of MRSA some of my old NecroTech co-workers claimed they used to handle. Paranoia can spread like the plauge, and has no limit to its methods of transmission. And I caught it.
A rumor had spread that people within a nearby safehouse were responsible for barricading the clinic, and even trying to slaughter those caught gathering syringes or trying to revivify the undead. Unconfermed whispers of people who went by the last names of "X" only were responsible, a brotherhood of grudges and the like. One fellow, a "Logan X", had been accused by whispers before. When a complaint about barricades and slaughter came up, I noticed him in the room.
...Bah! I made a idiotic mistake. Why didn't I think first? Fool! Paranoid crackpot of a man I am! I could have talked to him alone first!
But no. No, in the long hours of drugery and fustration over finding so few syringes I must have lost my head. I accused this man of the crime, demanding he prove otherwise. I had meant it just as an attempt for him to prove his innocence. If he had proof, and simply claimed he was not responsible, that would have worked for me.
But no sooner than the accusation left my lips did it become a lighting match upon the powder keg of fustration for a few frightened nearby survivors. Guns were pulled, and shots were fired. He barely escaped with his life, never once trying to fight back.
Days later, "Logan X" found me in another safehouse, and chewed me out right properly. He'd recieved medical attention, and did not harm me...though he would have been justifed to do so. I was far too ashamed to apologize (or even speak) at the time, but I've heard he's currently at a safehouse in the north. Tonight, I shall seek him out and apologize properly. I already left a public notice towards his innocence in the safehouse where his 'trial' (and I use the term mockingly) occured.
Never in all my days would I think myself reduced to this: A man of logic and science turned into a creature of petty fears and unfounded accusation. I am ashamed for myself, and only hope that giving a personal apology to this man I have wronged and fixing what damage I have caused will end my guilt and soothe my soul. I only hope "Logan X" will be willing to accept my profound grief.
December 05, 2005
Our work has gotten quite hard to do at the Yagoton Revivification Clinic. Syringes are becoming harder to find at NecroTech Buildings; Some worry we're begining to exhaust the supply. Some people openly mock us by the day, continuing to barricade the clinic despite the clear spraypainted requests to cease and desist.
I don't know what we're going to do. I've recently been leaving the revivification of our patients to my co-workers, opting to adminster First Aid to those who need it instead as well as keeping an eye on the clinic. It was quite heavily barricaded last I checked, trapping several zombies inside. I didn't have a chance to check and see if they suffered from Brain Rot or not, as I was far too tired from my last trip to Bale Mall and the effort of running through the heavy barricades on the clinic wore me out.
Who is doing this? Some random vandal? How can we convince them that keeping the clinic open is a good idea? What if they become zombified, and wish on some dreamlike level to return to life...only to find strong walls between them and the undead? Or perhaps, more horribly, they have become addicted to the zombie state, and wish to pass from life to death freely...and force others to join in their delightful undead dreams? I cannot think of it more at this time, as my own Memories of Life as such a half-awake thing still horrify me beyond words.
I...suppose it's a moot point, this whole barricade thing. An annoyance more than a problem. If the need to be revivified is that strong, the zombie hordes will simply smash through far too fast for any grief-sowing individual to build them up. I guess this is just a side of effect of the lulling times: People with too much time on their hands and not enough common sense for the common good.
December 01, 2005
Peace, it seems, never lasts long. Considering I've seen the once thought 'eternal peace' of the grave dismissed as mere fancy by the wandering dead of Malton, I shouldn't have expected anything less to occur to the peace we've had in Yagoton.
A new 'group', if it can be called as much, has been sending envoys into the safehouses around the clinic. They go by the name of "The Sons of Tomorrow", though a few label themselves as "The Sons of The Wasteland". They've been telling us that the clinic is "unnecessary", that the area no longer needs it. A few have threatened us and others tell us to leave. They seem angered when we ask them to stop placing barricades upon St. Swithun's Church, which we frequently remove in a short amount of time thanks to local citizen assistance.
To say the least, I'm quite conserned. While I know the clinic will stand due to the dedicated efforts of my co-workers, I hate the idea of so much more wasted effort and excessive death (and undeath) done due to petty ideological differences. Don't these people know that even though the zombie threat is low now, it is not gone? Don't these people know what service we're providing here? We don't just raise the dead, we also tend to the living.
Some have even called our work inspirational: I salute my fellow co-workers who have gone forth to assist in the ongoing Siege of Caiger Mall. These people should assist us, not work against us. We're the best damn clinic in the area...and we intend to keep it that way.
November 26th, 2005
I never thought I'd be in a good mood again. I actually caught myself whistling today as I attended to some wounded survivors!
The reason is because in most of Yagoton, at least near the clinic, you'd be hard pressed to find more than one or two zombies wandering about. A few stubborn undead, their brain rotted minds keeping them oblivious and fixated, insist on visiting the clinic from time to time...but for the most part? The streets are clear.
It's almost ironic that the YRC has done its job perhaps TOO well. I actually have quite a bit of spare time with little to do. The local area is mostly clear of casualties and wandering zombie threats. However, I do not expect this to be the norm. Nor is this happy situation true for all of Malton. My companion in Chudleyton has been telling me of the brave struggles of a large gathering of survivors battling off massive hordes at their local Mall. Those skilled in First Aid are at high priority there, as many are infected or critically wounded during the last attack.
I don't doubt we will witness such aftershocks soon enough...the undead will eventually head to where the food is. And I'm sadly sure that they may very well head here once again. That being said, I've taken the time to stock up on first aid kits at Bale Mall. I took the fruits of my labors back to the local safehouses near the clinic, attending to a few members of The Abandoned as well as a few recently recovered patients.
If things stay this slow, I might swing by our 'secondary' clinic location on Harkness Street. Perhaps they could use a skilled hand filled with syringes! I doubt my NecroTech employers would regard my inability to record DNA Extractor data very kindly for too long.
November 23rd, 2005
The recent activation of the mobile phone masts around Malton has rewarded me some shocking surprises. One, I discovered a friend of mine whom I hadn't seen since my days running around down in Wray Heights was still alive and now working in Chudleyton. While that was a pleasant surprise, the second surprise of the text message he sent me was downright astounding:
"Heard you lost track of D.C; Recently seen here @ NEMO owned hospital ALIVE. ML, but H&P."
The shorthand code perhaps needs explanation, and will reveal the source toward my shock and surprise. D.C stands for Darrien Creek, one of the first zombies I had the displeasure of encountering. He was already quite advanced in the zombification process, though my DNA Extractor results made me believe that the rather high level of fat content in his body had and would continue to preserved most of his cerebral cortex from brain rot. I'd been tracking D.C for quite some time to see if this conclusion was correct; a connection between celluite levels and brain degeneration would be an astounding find.
Apparently my hypothesis was correct. Though D.C seems to be suffering from the usual memory loss (ML), he is quite healthy and passive (H&P). The shorthand notes stem from our NecroTech days of sending quick instant messages from lab to lab, and it amused me to see an good friend still keeping the old ways alive. While I doubt I'll be publishing any papers on my discovery, this does seem to be good evidence that even the most advanced case of zombification can be reversed if the gray matter is not damaged. The issue of body fat content as a factor needs to be tested more, however.
Later communications revealed that D.C seemed to have no recollection of his recent occupation as the living dead...but some suggest that he's developed an eating disorder far beyond the norm. Hunger seems to be his fixation. He has been seen eating small bugs and spoiled food. I know little of this NEMO, but it seems that D.C is not currently offically affiliated with them...rather he is seeking shelter and currently helping gather first aid kits to heal others and fuel cans to maintain the generator. I only hope his curious dietary habits will not be his downfall. D.C seemed confused and unwilling to talk about any 'dreamlike' memories he may have. Indeed, the idea seemed to frighten him, according to my comrades messages.
This revelation means that while I may have proven one remarkable discovery...I may have also uncovered something more horrific. I do not think I can for long deny the hideous truth that bubbles within my now-living mind, or shut out the dark whispers of what Dr.VonJensen only onced theorised brought to life.
...But there is work to be done. Yes. The clinic is down to only 10 zombified patients, though I suspect one or two may be a brain rottted soul brought forth by the constant coming and goings of my co-workers. However, that is a job for security, something I am hardly equiped for.
Yes, yes. That's the ticket. Back to what I am equiped for...curing this city of its zombie plauge.
November 21st, 2005
I've sought shelter with various members of The Abandoned recently; Not out of any particular need, but safehouses closer to the clinic and other 'critical' areas were begining to fill up. And sad to say, saftey in numbers isn't always the case in terms of zombies. They go where the food is, and a pack-full safehouse is quite attractive to them.
It's worth the extra distance to walk back and forth from the clinic. The Abandoned are fine company, and quite a nice change of pace in attitude. They're more controled and confident than your usual poor frightened soul who staggers into the nearest safehouse after being shocked back into life by a syringe.
It's rather ironic that the clinic ITSELF is quite "safe" to operate in, as most zombies tend to head for the more "tempting" targets of the nearby safehouses. Some have argued that the zombies are targeting NecroTech buildings in particular; trying to stop the clinic by cutting it off at the source. Most of my colleges laugh this off, and I'm tempted to agree with them...they could just be going for where the food is.
But from what I have experienced...from what I have done, in dream or otherwise, suggests a more sinister potential answer. As I can hardly bring myself to recollect those events myself, I can't bring them up as 'evidence' myself.
Mostly because I hope, I pray, that I'm wrong.
November 20th, 2005
Weapon-swinging luddite neanderthals! What concept of revivification do these people not understand? Doing critical damage to a zombie does send it into a state similar to shock and thus disrupts the flow of nerve impulses, preventing it from doing bodily harm to those near it. Yes, thats all and good, people who've been around for the last five minutes. But it also makes any attempts at using syringes impossible! What am I supposed to do with a pile of zombie bodies in a state of wild nerve disruption? You must have the subject in at least some semi-concious degree of neurological functioning for there to be any chance of ...
...But my anger is displaced and unwarranted. Without the assistance of others, the Yagoton Revivification Clinic would be but a pipe dream. Those with Clinical Brain Rot would overrun us, and all NecroTech buildings would be overthrown. But when others seem shocked at the number of zombies at the clinic's open church location (currently at 65 during my last rounds), they scream bloody panicking murder about being overrun or brag about how they "Took a few of the filthy zeds down". And such things infuriate me so! We're doing a service here, and that service is being disrupted by ignorance; even if they are well-intended acts of ignorance.
I said as much, rather out of place, in a nearby shelter as my anger carried forth my annoyance at this attitude toward nearby survivors. While it is true we need more people able to operate syringes, and not so much more weaponry, it is also true that without people who are able and willing to fight and risk their lives...I would not be here to write this now. I confess I feel rather ashamed for what I have said. But I cannot help but wish for more understanding on the nature of the undead, not to mention the basic functions of the clinic itself.
On a brighter note, the swell is dropping, and our patients are finally getting the treatment they need. I'm proud to witness several budding new additions to our surgical staff commit themselves so quickly to the cause. They remind me why I'm doing this, and make up for the admittidly few annoyances against my fellow survivors. One of them has even been giving me a few pointers on how to scavenge in the often well-defended Malls. I could hardly find the frozen food section before most places of shopping became overrun with the undead, so I've listened to his advice quite completly. I look forward to his next 'lecture', as it were.
November 17th, 2005
The screams from the nearby building finally ceased. The fools! Hiding in a known Necrotech Building in such numbers only enticed the attack, much less one so close to the Yagoton Revivification Clinic. I stopped by there for some supplies, but couldn't resist the chance to gather some data on the crowd. When I finally attempted to use a syringe, it was wasted upon a zombie whom before I could not yet identify with Brain Rot.
Damnation! If we only had some sort of expert who could teach us how to identify the tell-tale signs of such severe brain damage and possibly those infection, our jobs would be far easier. As it was, I recieved a few scratches (thankfully uninfected ones) for my trouble. I may have to tend to my own needs and come back from a more secured supply point to tend to those of the damned who wish to end their state.
I ran into a few other offical members of the Yagoton Revivification Clinic the other day. One kept babbling about the need for relocation due to the intense zombie influx. I reminded him that the clinic ITSELF was safe; there were no suvivors to remain inside its walls, and little pity was given to those who remained inside. It was the supply buildings NEAR the clinic that were under attack, and that was more an annoyance for us rather than a critical failure. He went back to his duties without remark.
I had the distinct pleasure of returning one of our own back to life as well; The poor fellow seemed quite out of it even in his zombified state. I find it curious how not all undead revert to their primal instincts, but rather cling to what foggy memories they can and stumble about. What dreams do these blessed innocent dead have? Did they ever share in my waking nightmares?
November 14th, 2005
This is the first report I have been able to get through to my employers at NecroTech for some time; my late report was accepted without complaint mostly due to the fact that I had been assumed consumed and lost forever by my questionably "caring" employers. Indeed, even after having arrived at a safe place, my ability to transmit the major amount of DNA extractor data (much less maintain a log) I've gathered was recently hindered untill yesterday when a memo arrived. It read as such:
To ensure full-time employment for staff on all shifts, the DNA-extractor uplink coordination has finally been changed to be time unspecific. Employees are advised to seek and scan active specimens.
The unstated secondary fact was that the broadband access had been nearly doubled due to a removal of what many of my co-workers had dubbed "The 12th Hour Rush" for samples. This increase in transmission use has given me a much needed ability to finally catch upload my data and begin a proper employee log (as per my contract demands). Time is survival in this place; It must be spent well, every action ground down to a well-thought out point.
...But in truth, I do not think I yet have the mental strength to discuss in these logs what happened to me when that resupply helicopter crashed in Wray Heights all those weeks ago. It hangs upon me like it were years of torture rather than just weeks of learning how to live in Malton. I still don't know how I survived for as long as I did, and when they...finally had me...how I wandered here...and those dreams! Those horrible dreams of a waking Hell filled with the slavering damned!
A man should not think of such things at this late hour. I shall pen it another day. Tonight, I rest in relative saftey among others, with a good book and a warm bed.