Zombieleaks has strived to track down the individuals who Romero attempted to contact. Alex Wright was one of six. The other five were asked by associates of Romero to provide written submissions of their actions when the Blood Turned and in the aftermath. Following the suppression of Alex’s investigation into the Preservation and the rapid onset of Post-Zombosis Stress Disorder (PZSD), the remaining five recounted events that not only call the supposed truths of the Commandments into question, but much of the actions of the Preservation.
Zombieleaks obtained transcripts of these confessions and have included them in full as part of this data dump.
Since Alex’s death we have shown the utmost care throughout our data gathering process. However, we cannot verify the status of the other five subjects, therefore all personal details have been redacted to protect their identities.
For data organisation purposes, we have classified their cases as:
Hi, I represent Commandment No.3.
Commandment No. 3 is wrong.
Let me explain why.
I was lying in hospital at the beginning of all of this, unconscious.
I remember stirring, and opening my eyes for the first time in what felt like forever. Sheer whiteness bounced off the walls and floor and two fluorescent bulbs on the ceiling beamed bright light onto my face. As my vision cleared a little I could see that I was wrapped tightly in thick white sheets that covered me up to my neck, with my arms also tucked underneath, by my side. As I looked to my left, I found a bedside table, on top of which was a glass jug of water roughly a quarter full. Wedged in against the wall, next to the table, was a heart monitor device. It was switched off, but various wires and pads hung downwards. Nudged out into the floor, facing away from me, was a flat-pack chair. A TV positioned high up on the wall to my left was turned on with volume muted, but showing that type of white, hypnotic static that looks like worms crawling all over each other to break through the screen and fall into the room.
I remember not remembering, which was weird for me as I could always recall things pretty well. I’ve never been much of an alcohol or drug abuser; I’ve always been too healthy for that. I was 26 then, an athlete, a 400m hurdler. I wasn’t at Olympic level but I competed on the track to a good standard. I trained and worked hard at improving my physique and my technique. I monitored my diet. I slept ten hours a night. I was fit, virile. And so I’d never experienced waking up not recalling the night before. It wasn’t nice. But I think it’s why my memory of everything that comes next is so clear – I made sure I wouldn’t forget it. Sorry if this sounds a little procedural, but I want to provide you as much detail as I can.
I tried to pull my arms from underneath the sheets and into my line of vision, but my right hand had a needle lodged in it, taped in place, with feed still attached to a plastic drip dangling from the edge of the bed. It was tied to the frame of my bed with what looked like the belt from a dressing gown. The dressing gown, my dressing gown I assumed, lay underneath where the drip was hanging a few inches above the floor. Droplets of liquid remained on the inside of the otherwise empty bag, clinging to the plastic. I slowly removed the needle and feed and threw them on the tiles.
I clenched both of my fists and stretched out the fingers, before rubbing my eyes and face. I could feel a fair bit of stubble on my chin. I wasn’t one for beards. I was as clean shaven as it gets and the bristles felt a little longer than usual, an indication I had been here for a while.
I reached over to grab the jug of water. I spilled more on my green hospital gown than I could get into my mouth. I sat forward slightly, waiting for my mind to catch up and fill me in on how I had got here, but instead all I got was a dull pain in the temple.
To the right of me was the door, the only way in and out of the room, and alongside ran a large window with the curtains drawn across from the inside. In fact, it was less a window and more a viewing point where doctors could peer through and diagnose illnesses from the safety of behind the glass. The window was about four times the width of the door and the curtain hid my view of the outside, with the exception of a tiny strip along the top next to the rings holding the curtain in place. Through the narrow gap I could only see the ceiling of the corridor, with panel lights flickering on and off.
I nudged myself upright in bed and my body reacted positively; my muscles seemed to flex and my brain responded. I began to think a little clearer.
I waited for the short-term memory to kick in. In the meantime I assessed what little I knew. I had been placed on a drip of some kind, but judging from the empty bag I hadn’t been attended to in a while. The heart monitor was padded up, and might have been used at some point, but had been turned off for whatever reason. The strewn chair meant someone might have sat there once but not in a while. The water had tasted a little stale. My mind raced. Memories flooding forward, useless thoughts. Old family members, work colleagues, discussions with people I’d met once and never seen again, embarrassing altercations that I longed were forgotten but continued to haunt me…. and then, a realisation.