Texts/LordRutherford

These are collected excerpts from Lord Rutherford's attempts to communicate with a regular zombie aggressor at his brain rot clinic in The Serrell Building.

Attempt number one:

I first attempted to gain the zombie's sympathy by explaining how futile our fight was (I'd been attacking him with my surgical scalpel after he destroyed my lab equipment) and that I'd like to stay and read him a few newspapers I happened to have on me. They mostly turned out to be information pamphlets on how to stay safe in Malton, so I told him that he'd be safe with me and that I'd take a nap in the corner as a gesture of trust. I woke up several hours later to find that he'd bitten me and fled the building.

Attempt number two:

I find our subject standing outside despite the fact that the building is still ruined and unbarricaded. Does he still not trust me, or did he just want some fresh air? Judging by how quickly hordes can form, I do believe zombies to be capable of smelling their own stench. This is an area that will require further research. For now, I told the zombie that biting me was uncalled for and heading back inside to restore my laboratory and cure my infection.

Attempt number three:

Success! The zombie broke through barricades, bit me, and then left again. Perhaps we have developed enough of a rapport that he no longer desires to kill me. I shall have to work on his desire to eat me though. Zombie infection is a truly dreadful experience. Unfortunately, though he left me alive, the many zombies who followed him through were less forgiving. I have already been mastering the undead experience and was able to move around as if I was still living. I moved outside. Through the memory exercises I'd been doing in preparation for this project I discovered that with some effort I could remember how to speak.

At first, it was incoherent, but then I remembered enough from reading other zombie linguist's logs on the necronet to be able express how unhappy I was about what had happened. My brain then clouded over, and I find myself lying in a stretcher in a rescue church feverishly writing on a notepad:

• Ah, nah rhh ah mah. Ah nah magh rah zambah! Zah zarrah.

I believe this to be the zombie's reply to me after I blacked out. It seems to be some attempt to apologise for biting me. I am unfamiliar with the particular dialect of this specimen, but from what I understand, his zombie (he) is not right, and he is sorry.