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:
Hello, whoever you are. It would have been a pleasure to meet you, I’m sure. But I’m not willing to risk exposure for the sake of a chat over tea and biscuits. This is as close as you come to me or what I do. I’m only getting involved in a totally selfless attempt to give this generation of fuck-ups a chance to redeem their pathetically pointless little lives.
Where do I start? This is like an episode of ‘This is Your Life’. Remember that programme? A load of sycophants streaming out to talk about that week’s guest by way of anecdotes and backslapping. Since the only people in my life who have ever thanked me for anything are all dead, I guess I’m on my own when it comes to the story of how I got to be here.
Let’s face it, if it hadn’t been the Zombies, it would have been something else. Before the Blood Turned things had become too much to bear. At the turn of the millennium we could at least pretend that the dickheads we were forced to work alongside day in, day out had some redeeming qualities, but I’ve got news for you – they categorically don’t. Rather than waiting until the next Christmas party for them to get drunk and try to fuck their colleagues, all it takes is a click into their ‘Summer Holiday Pics’ album to find out how slutty, bogus and plain boring they really are. The illusion is gone and everyone knows it. Masks don’t need to slip on one-off occasions any more. The masks have, voluntarily I might add, been thrown out to allow people to see the ‘real me’. And you know what? They’re all insufferable bastards. They aren’t interesting. They aren’t unique. They tell me nothing. They bring me nothing. They are nothing. Humanity was nothing, and is more nothing now than ever.
We reached a tipping point as a civilised race just before the Blood Turned. Social media had created an era where self-importance and narcissism were pillars of virtue, leading to seven Billion universes containing just a single inhabitant.
And for a while, when we needed each other as a society, as a species, to overcome NZ and restructure our civilisation, we ignored our inconsequential problems and settled our differences for the continuation of life.
But we’ve returned to our selfish ways because regular Joes are now as likely to encounter NZ in any form as they are to get murdered in a major city; it does happen and there are places where you are much more likely to see it happen than others but otherwise the public have resumed their lives, returning to the brainless fucking creatures they were before this. I believe that the Blood Turning was a wake-up call to our vulnerability and we are completely ignoring it. We are making the same mistakes again. And that, for me, is one of the most depressing elements of our post-NZ world.
That’s right. We are worse than the damn Zombies, because at least their self-awareness is gone. They don’t brush their hair, fix their make-up, pump iron at the gym, talk about how many sexual conquests they’ve had, all while watching reality shows about people doing precisely the same thing. No, they do nothing except eat, and look for the next place that will give them the opportunity to eat. It’s a feral existence. And given how much we fucked up our sentient existence, I’m with the Zombies on this one. It’s a noble way to die.
When the Blood Turned, I had an epiphany.
I watched my sister stagger around on the lawn, looking for someone to consume. Her clothes were ragged and ripped, her formerly pristine, poker-straight blond hair tugged across her head. White eyes, the whitest eyes I’ve ever seen, sunken into her skull, face unrecognisable, pieces of bone protruding through her skin, and I envied her more than I’ve ever envied anyone in my life.
She, as usual, had been looking out for herself when the preliminary reports filtered through. She defied my parents and tried to escape to her boyfriend’s house. She got unlucky. Made it across the city I assume, but given the number that switched instantly when the Blood Turned, she would have been wading into an area filled with them. All I know is that she left a few hours in, and was there in our garden less than ten hours later. She’d found her way back. There’s something still in there, you know, memories. Buried deep in that Zombie brain of hers she knew there were humans at this location she could feed on. It’s an admirable skill to have. Makes them like sharks, smelling blood in the water from a mile away. She had more ability sniffing out humans when she was dead than any discernible skill she had when she was alive, other than to bitch about her stupid fucking friends.
Anyway, I’m babbling on. She came back and was outside the front door, a chunk missing from her chest and that glazed over look that all of them have. She looked peaceful, consigned to her fate. In my life, I had never felt any affinity with her and yet, in that moment where all she could do was look around indifferently, I loved what my sister had become, such a superior version of herself.
Now, I know what you are thinking. But let’s look at it from another angle. Have you ever tried to slit your wrists? To tie a scarf around your neck and jump off the chair? To take a jar of painkillers and force the pills into your stomach? It’s hard as hell. Some of us decide to go on living when we would be so much better off somewhere else. There just isn’t enough room on the planet for all of us to achieve our dreams or even be remotely satisfied and so there’s inevitably always going to be a massive majority who are utterly miserable, living from day to day without the prospect of things getting any better. And what can be worse than this? Surely there’s an alternative out there?