25 December 2010
02:33
If Hunters sleep, I wouldn't know about it, apparently. This one certainly isn't.
The first time he woke me was at around midnight. He was calling to his kin, the one that tried to rescue it yesterday. That one was outside, of course, but apparently not far from the door. They were almost definitely communicating with each other—there was a call, and there was an answer. This phenomenon would have been more fascinating if it wasn't literally the middle of the night.
I used this opportunity to test the shock collar. Each time my captive Hunter would start to call, I administered a shock. It stings, but it doesn't knock the Hunter out—as I had thought. Apparently it stings a lot, however, because it only took four shocks for the Hunter to figure out that he needed to stay silent or get hurt. After about fifteen minutes of silence, I tossed a slice of jerky at the Hunter through a slot in the cage door meant for that purpose. He seemed quite grateful for the jerky, and devoured it within moments before settling down...and still staying quiet.
I only wish I could have done the same for the Hunter outside. But despite the second Hunter's rather pathetic cries, I went back to sleep.
Unfortunately, I was woken a second time not an hour later. This time, it was from a certain stench emanating from the Hunter's cage, and his annoyed growls.
Zombies do, in fact, expel waste matter as other living creatures do. This isn't something the virus messed around with, evidently. However, the virus had taken away their fine motor skills, and so they are unable to manage the complicated processes of removing their pants to defecate or urinate. My captive Hunter had, in colloquial terms, shat his pants, and he was unhappy about it.
I realized that I would need to clean the Hunter myself. This was not an appealing prospect, I assure you. But I equated it in my mind to cleaning up after the animals I had once treated; neither they nor this Hunter could have helped themselves. It was up to me to keep him healthy, if I wanted to tame him. And besides, it would give me an opportunity no other human being could—it would give me the chance to study Hunter physiology.
And so I made my first and only attempt while the Hunter was conscious. But as soon as the cage door opened, the Hunter lunged at me again, apparently ignoring his earlier lessons in futility in favor of the chance to maul me. I realized that I wouldn't be able to survive getting near him while he was conscious. He would realize he couldn't get to me at the end of the chain, but as soon as I was in range...I wouldn't be alive long enough to shock him down.
So I filled another dart with sedatives, the same amount I used before. I loaded it into a small rifle that I had no idea if it was the right weapon or not, and fired at the Hunter. The rifle didn't blow up in my face, and the dart hit, so the Hunter went down, collapsing face-forward onto the floor. And then I went to work.
I unhooked the Hunter from his chain first, before stripping off his maroon hooded sweatshirt. His entire upper torso was spotted with warts and boils, and the color of his skin was a deathly gray, but his muscle structure was comparable to an athlete's. His hair was shoulder-length, tied with a frayed elastic band—likely from before Infection—absolutely filthy, and the color of muddy straw. That hair might have been thick once, and beautiful; but between his filth and the Infection itself, it was falling out.
An interesting thing to note: The virus destroys not only a Hunter's eyes, but its eyelids as well. This one's empty sockets stared at me even though I knew he was unconscious.
Once the sweatshirt was off, I replaced the collar, just to give me a chance in case he woke while I was still working. Then I went to work on his lower half. I began with his shoes, tugging them off without bothering to untie them. I found that Hunters bear claws on their toes as well, although these were misshapen due to their growth inside the shoes. The putrid socks went next, tossed onto the sweatshirt. Finally, all that was left were his pants and underwear.
I have to say that this was the hardest part, and not just because he had defecated in his clothing. Intellectually, I knew that this was a wild, rabid creature. But intellect and instinct are not often in tune, and instinctively, I still felt that this thing was human, to an extent. After all, he still looked mostly human. So when I finally broke through the rusted zipper on his fly, and wrestled the filthy garment and undergarments off of him, I froze.
I am not a very intimate person. The partners I had had earlier in life, both male and female, were few and far between. I had never married, either, and any dates I've had never really lasted beyond the first outing. Much of my reluctance has stemmed my asexuality—I've never really had an interest in sex, and in fact, I found the idea (pertaining to me, anyway) disgusting. It was that disgust that stalled me; I had to touch him there, where I'd never truly touched anyone.
I knew I had to clean him myself, however. So I swallowed my disgust (and the bile that had been rising) and retrieved the bucket of soap and water I'd prepared after I realized what I had to do. As I worked, I made a few more observations, if only to keep myself from freezing again: A Hunter's legs are powerful, despite being just as blighted as the rest of their body. The virus has turned them into the perfect high-vaulters—and runners. I wouldn't be surprised if they could rival several animal species, such as cheetahs, in speed.
I finished just as he began to stir. I tossed the rags into the bucket, quickly gathered the soiled clothing under my arm and rushed out of range of the chain. The Hunter's head snapped up, and he snarled, rolling onto all fours. But I slammed the cage door shut just before he moved to launch himself at me, and he let out a shriek of what I could only guess was frustration.
He seemed to notice right away that he was nude. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised, but I thought he might not have reacted, like sheep when they're sheered. His hands pawed at his body, almost exploring it for the first time. Maybe it was, since he was Infected; after all, he wasn't able to remove his clothing after turning into this creature. He made a few noises of distress-part whimper, part growl. Then he started to sniff around like a dog, finding the trail of his scent to lead in my direction. He didn't lunge, but he did strain against his chain a little, taking swipes at me.
But I ignored him—or tried to, anyway—and headed for the laundry room. He shrieked after me a few times, but eventually settled, and I got to work on trying to salvage his clothing...if I could. I'd gotten his filth all over me, which meant a shower after I was done here, but I didn't mind that so much. I tossed the sweatshirt in first, and searched the pants' pockets to empty them.
I found what had once been the Hunter's wallet. When I opened it, I found his driver's license. Christopher Nathaniel Sommers had been his name; he had been six feet and two inches tall, and had weighed 172 pounds. He was young, too, only in his early twenties. He had lived within this vicinity, only three blocks away in what I assumed to be an apartment building. And he had been attractive to my tastes, if perhaps a tad effeminate. His hair had been a lovely shade of yellow gold, and his lost eyes had been an unusual violet. He was clean-shaven in his license photo, and wearing a red tank top that showed that the virus hadn't done much at all to enhance his upper torso and arms. His hair had been just as long, though, and kept in the same ponytail.
Behind his license, Christopher had kept a photo of himself—and his identical female twin. They were both perched on top of the brick and wrought-iron fence that lined the city's historical courthouse, grinning happily. They had their arms slung over each other's shoulders, and were wearing the same outfits; the only way I could tell Christopher's twin was female was her larger chest. There was writing on the back of the photo: Chris & Lexi - August 2008.
I realized then that the Hunter outside that had tried to rescue my captive was this girl, this Lexi.
Special Infected could feel emotions, apparently. Or at least, instinct led them to protect kin.
They truly were wild animals—wild, carnivorous, cannibalistic animals, but animals nonetheless.
I finally put in the pants as well as my pajamas that I had been wearing and set the washer to run while I took a shower. Then I sat down to write this.
I don't know what to think about these Infected. They're not zombies—all right, maybe what remains of the commons are, but not the Special Infected. Those aren't mindless. They think in a very limited capacity, they adapt to their surroundings, they're capable of learning...and now, perhaps, they even feel some limited emotions.
I want to study these Hunter twins together. I will make an effort to capture Lexi. Perhaps having them together will make them easier to tame.
From the Desk of Dr. Garnet Merle, D.V.M.