Author's Notes: Fic for my most recent fandom, Left 4 Dead/2. Enjoy. (Typical disclaimers apply, of course—I don't own L4D/2, that franchise is Valve's.)
10 September: I've begun to go through and do a little tweaking. Don't worry, I won't change anything, at least not significantly. But I am adding details and stretching the timeline a bit, to make it a bit more realistic. I'm trying to be thorough, but if you guys feel I missed something or if something feels out of place, lemme know!
I'd like to begin this journal with an introduction and a history.
My name is Dr. Garnet Merle, D.V.M. I was born in January of 1967; my parents, both of them flower children, named me for January's birthstone. I admit that I share the garnet's coloring; my hair is a vibrant red, and my eyes a deep red-brown. Before the zombie apocalypse, before the world went to hell, I was a veterinarian. I primarily treated small animals, but I practiced in a small town in western Pennsylvania on the border between rural and suburban, and so other animals of all sizes were brought to me as well. The Humane Society had me on call, and I ran a small rescue out of my rural home.
I was familiar with many sorts of animals and their behaviors; that was why CEDA had called me in for consulting, when the Green Flu was first spreading and the infected individuals were found to behave more like rabid animals than human beings. If we could understand their behaviors, and how their mutations contributed to that behavior, then we could better fight them. We could begin reclaiming our homes, our country—or so the thinking went.
I was assigned to a team of fifteen individuals, five of which being military protection. We were sent to a fortified field lab in eastern Pennsylvania, not far from ground zero. The building was small, with only a mid-sized laboratory (though complete with all that we'd need, including holding cells and cages for test subjects), an attached dormitory where we would live, and a storage house of the same size as the laboratory.
We were the only humans in the area anymore. Our job was to observe the "zombies," as the Infected were called, in an environment devoid of human contact. How did they live in this new world that they created? Did they seek out the basic needs that other living creatures sought, such as food and shelter? Or had the virus destroyed even that?
We learned much in almost a month. As it turns out, the virus is almost unnatural in the way it evolves so quickly. At first, there was but the one strain—that which turned normal, everyday human beings into what we called zombies; almost mindless creatures that wandered aimlessly, or sat or laid down where they stood, or merely stared at a blank wall, until something got their attention. But within nearly two weeks of the virus's first victim, we found evidence of new strains, such as the slimy green bile from what we now call "Boomers." At first, we had wondered as to why these mutations were appearing—but by the end of the month, we had an educated guess.
The virus could not survive without a host, but it also couldn't survive as the common strain, either. Yes, it had enhanced the victims' speed and strength, to an extent; however, in doing so, it had eliminated any desire for sustenance and any sense of self-preservation in the victims. They didn't eat, they didn't sleep, and they didn't drink. The strength and speed required a heightened metabolism, and so they burned out fast, faster than an uninfected person. Eventually, they collapsed, dying where they stood from sleep deprivation, starvation or dehydration. They were bright, hot fires with very little fuel.
So the virus evolved new ways to spread itself, and to strengthen its victims to do so, without destroying their abilities to keep themselves alive. And so came to be what we know as the "Special" Infected, the specialized mutations of the Green Flu virus. Each mutation seemed to be specific to the victim. For example, an obese person may become a Boomer, or an athlete a Hunter. (We determined this by combining samples of the virus, separated from its blood host, with blood samples of various individuals, and then comparing them with samples from the corpses of "Special" Infected that we encountered. Various teams, including my own, used this procedure; our results were consistent with each other.) Many of the mutations seemed to be too specialized to survive on their own without aid. The aforementioned Boomer, for example, was very fragile; if something pierced its massive bulk, it would explode in a shower of bile and gore. More often than not, the "Special" Infected were found in teams, or packs, and would use their abilities in tandem with each other.
We observed these new mutations in the wild, as well, from our laboratory. Mentally, their capacity was only a little better than the common strain. It was more along the lines of hunting animals; predatory intelligence with the ability to adapt to their surroundings, use the environment to their advantage, and to cooperate with each other in the hunt.
The most glaring observation that we made, and that most of the other teams had made, was that these creatures were no longer human. Although they may have looked humanoid, all higher mental capacities were destroyed when the virus took their bodies. Genetically, the zombies, both common and mutated, were the same as any uninfected human being—but they didn't look human and they didn't act human. The virus had turned them into animals, and so they were treated as such.
Eventually, the military took over operations dealing with the Infection. Research teams like my own were, thankfully, allowed to continue while all other surviving humans were pulled back, to leave room for the military to begin bombing. Zones were allotted for research, and barricades were formed. When the bombings began, research zones were excluded. However, while the common Infected had no survival instinct, the Special Infected did. By the end of it, the number of Special Infected in the research zones had doubled.
A few individuals we were told were volunteers were airlifted to us and to other teams for research. They were carriers; immune to the virus' symptoms and mutations, but still able to spread it. This was a mistake, in my team's case; as it turns out, not all of us were immune, though only one of us had what it took to become a Special Infected. She was mutated into a "Spitter," a zombie with an elongated neck that spat and exuded acidic mucus—easy to remove and to move away from, but highly corrosive. I still bear scars of superficial acid burns on my left arm.
My team was overrun after a month on the field after being infected by a few carriers. Only four of us who were still immune had escaped, and there was only one army soldier among us. We civilians received impromptu lessons on how to fire military arms. I was also able to pass on abbreviated lessons in self-defense, augmented by Private Carter's expertise. In all, we were able to survive for just over another month before we encountered a Tank.
Tanks are the largest and strongest of the Infected. Their muscle mass had been increased exponentially, especially in the upper body. With this increase in strength, however, comes a driving bloodlust that causes them to kill anything in their way. Infected or not, if it lays eyes on you, you are likely its next target for destruction, bar none. Such was the case for our little group of four. Though we fled, trying to find somewhere to make a stand, we were overwhelmed.
Only I survived. Fear drove me to run, to flee, while my fellow survivors were annihilated. I hid while they died. The Tank hadn't seen me running, hadn't noticed that I had fled, and so it left me alone after it was finished killing those who had become my friends. Thankfully, I had found someplace that was almost completely safe; I couldn't have lived there, as cramped and dank as it was, but it at least sheltered me in my grief as I sobbed through the night. I knew that there were zombies trying to get to me, but they couldn't reach me, nor could they break open the heavy iron covering. I was safe for the time being, safe to mourn for my fallen comrades, and to wallow in self-hate.
I finally emerged again when I realized I was terribly hungry, and my thirst was even worse. I wasn't quite sure how long I had been in there, but it was long enough for my stomach to cramp painfully. The zombies had gone by then, as well, likely frustrated by so many failed attempts to get at me—a fact which told me that it was the "Special" Infected which had come for me, not any common zombies. In fact, it had been by then that I realized that the number of common Infected had dropped significantly.
Winter had come in full. It was December by the time I was alone. The common strain, it seems, cannot survive in winter at all. Hypothermia had become the leading cause of death, rather than starvation or being killed by one another (did I mention the commons fight amongst themselves?) or by surviving humans. Now it was merely a matter of dodging the Special Infected, which was also an easy enough task in winter. The cold slowed them, making it simpler to avoid them and escape. I made my way back to the laboratory, where we had food, water and other supplies stockpiled for fifteen people for one year. One individual alone could make that stockpile last for several years.
However, when I arrived at the laboratory and cleared it of any remaining zombies—we hadn't had time to seal it when we fled—I found that a majority of the food supplies were devoured or ruined. What was left would only last me through the winter if I rationed it. They didn't touch anything that wasn't food, however, which was a relief; at least there would be heat, and I would be able to remain clean. I salvaged what was good, and destroyed what had been tainted.
One of the first things I discovered, however, was that the radios no longer worked. Rather, they worked, but I received no reply. After several days of failed attempts to reach anyone, I decided that I was on my own. There was no help to be had. I was alone, and it seemed I was going to stay that way. So I settled in at the fortified laboratory for the winter, and even started to continue the research as best as I could.
I came up with an idea during a particularly fierce snowstorm. This idea would likely alienate me from what remained of society. I would be called insane, perhaps even a traitor, if ever I managed to return to it. Perhaps I might be executed; perhaps I may just be imprisoned instead. Yet it was an idea that would help me survive, and…if it became widespread…it would perhaps mean salvation for the human race.
I was going to tame a zombie.
Not one of the common strains, of course. They were too far gone to learn. But the Special Infected were intelligent enough to learn; they could feel pain and hunger. Therefore, they could be trained, if one was willing to through with it, and had some plan for what they were doing. I was willing. I had…some sort of a plan. Fortunately, we had a veritable library on hand, so I had some reference, at least, on which to rely when I was at a loss. If our ancestors could tame wolves, and modern-day Africans could tame hyenas, why couldn't we now tame these new predators?
I have chosen to begin with the Hunter strain; though deadly, Hunters are the closest to animals that an Infected can become, and so they are the easiest for me to understand and therefore to train. They are not so strong that they can break the chains with which the laboratory is equipped, nor are they so oblivious to pain that electric shocks will not work on them. They hunger, and so food can be a reward, even though it means depleting my own supply; if I should succeed in taming them, then perhaps food may not be as much of an issue.
I wish it to be known that I am under no illusion that these creatures are human. Any higher functions have been irrevocably destroyed by the virus. I expect that the most I will receive from them after taming is acceptance as a hunting partner, much like a falconer with her peregrine.
And so I begin this journal. If I should fail, let it be a cautionary tale to any who may wish to follow in my footsteps. If I should succeed, then let it serve for others to improve upon my techniques for the future.
From the Desk of Dr. Garnet Merle, D.V.M.