First some notes about my submission. It has three parts. The diary of David Porter a guy from England submitted via internet to LZ (2009). A reminiscence of Dr. Gräber written on a typewriter (1982). A German classified document; typewriter too (1944).
I made the German doc with an old typewriter. It took alone two hours to repair and maintain it in order to type something with it! After that loud and hard typing experience I had enough and I used a font called "Butterbrotpapier" for the text of Gräber and printed and scanned it.
If it does not fit into the scrap book feel free to say so. Please let me know if you find typos, etc. I'm sure there are. I consider it as version 0.9.
The whole story, persons, etc is pure imagination. Places are real though. Google and Wikipedia were my friends ;-)
######### The diary of David Porter ###########
January 17th, 2009
Today I buried my father in the back yard. After all the horrid occurrences of the last weeks and the probably weighty discovery I made, I now begin this diary.
My personal horror story begun in 1983 when I was 10 years old. My father John Porter found a strange old typescript at the local flee market. He spend a few pennies for it but he never showed it to me. In 1999 I figured out why. I scanned all the pages of that odd sheets and I'll attach it to my own diary.
I wonder if my father felt any pain when I shot him. Do zombies have feelings at all?
The internet helps a lot. I'm soothed by knowing that there are still real humans outside. Luckily I am still online. Maybe it won't last for long. I fear that electricity will cease soon.
In the summer of 1999 my father was together with some old pals for a weekend. They were at the seaside drinking beer and talking about the old times. Good for him. My poor daddy. My Mom died in 1995 - cancer. So I was alone at home and bored. As a teacher he always had loads of books in his study. I looked around for something suspenseful to read after I felt nasty enough to nick a few shots of his good old whiskey. I found the drawer of his desk locked. After ten minutes I got the key and opened it. Inside was the typescript. I had my thriller for that weekend!
I need to check my stocks now. I guess I have to go for a ride within the next days.
I was at the supermarket and the filling station today. Fortunately there is still enough useful stuff and fuel. I even saw some of them and some bodies but I feel save in the car with my guns. We never had guns at home but now it is damn imperative! I got them and the ammunition from a journey to ghost-London last November. A horror trip but I filled the whole trailer with nice things. I'm quite equipped now. Even if the current will cut off I will be able to generate my own electricity. I checked the engine today and it worked flawlessly.
Back to 1999. After my father came back I was so excited about those notes of a Dr. Gräber that I had to discuss it with him. Besides I felt bad not to tell him that I opened his locked drawer. It wasn't a big deal for him and I asked him what he thinks about those notes. We agreed that that story of an SS-doctor fleeing after dealing with zombies sounds to exaggerated, to unreal. My (and his) first impression was that this must be a fragment or beginning of a zombie book or something. He sad he hid it because I was too young for such crude and awful things. The typescript was forgotten and the drawer locked because he preserved all his bank account documents there.
I did all the things which have to be done to keep this house a save and convenient place. The whole basement is blocked up now. I hid guns and other weapons anywhere. The problem is that those bloodthirsty creatures out there visited me more frequently recently. Maybe a whole bunch of people got infected, now stumbling around undead and cumbersome.
Evening now. I transformed the bedroom into a surveillance control centre. I have eight monitors showing me what's going on outside. The cameras are swivel-mounted. If I spot one I shout to him or her. Just in case. That way I shot 19 so far. They all moaned and grunted. I never heard a clear human voice. I hope I'll never shoot some-one who is, well, human!
I am composed enough now to write down how I lost my father. In March of 2007 I heard about the flue for the first time. It seemed to be so far away in the US. We did not care much here in England in the beginning. But then the flue started to spread in the cities. Here in the middle of nowhere we were save for a while. My father caught the virus probably during a gathering at the town-hall. 20 hours after that meeting he felt sick. I had no direct contact with him for I was helping friends a few miles away that day. When he heard me coming home he shouted "Don't come close to me! I hope not but I might have caught that fucking virus!" He said fucking. I still hear his words in my mind. Yes, that fucking virus is the pestilence of our time. If mankind will survive than they'll have a big laugh in 100 years about how unknowing we had been I suppose.
His assumption turned out to be true. He showed all the symptoms of an infection with the Campion Virus. While he was still able to talk he told me that no-one bit him. He speculated that the virus found its way in his body through a small cut at his left hand. He somehow touched a handle or something similar with his hurt hand.
I hear a crackling sound. Ah, camera seven shows another one. They probably can smell my fresh blood.
Head-shot. I have to burn all the bodies again. That's much easier and saver than bury them. Although once in a while I recognize people from the past. Even if I survive the nightmares will stay for ever.
Guns are clean and in readiness, all rotten zombies burned. I am a soldier, a hunter, a coroner, an expert for epidemic plagues. I'm a survivor.
I had some time for leisure today. All chores are done I would say. No more undead around. Either I killed them all or they do have a sparkle of cleverness left which tells them that a pump-gun might end their "life" abruptly. However, for the moment they don't bother me.
Thus I walked around in the empty house a bit bored. Quite a similar feeling to that day in summer of 1999. Subsequently I opened the drawer again, found the typescript and read it a second time. I don't know why the idea of reading it again came so late after the whole world has changed in such a dramatic way. Then it stroke me! If I put it all together then there is one likely explanation: The Campion Virus has a natural origin and its ancestor is the Kalkfeld Virus! If that is true then the US-Army took the results and infected tissue shortly before the war ended and they developed their own B-weapon. Two years ago a drastically mistake must have been occurred. Maybe in the beginning it was just an ordinary flue and the mutation was not natural but initiated by the similar but extremely dangerous Kalkfeld Virus (or the US-version of it). I hope somebody will find the truth!
This evening the long feared cut off happened. No electricity any-more. It was foolish to put the generator and the fuel outside in the garden shed. As long as I did not want to sit around in the dark with no lights (except my torches) and more important no monitors I decided to go and get that damn thing. I prepared myself thoroughly; equiped with a powerful torch, a gas mask, the pump-gun, the .45 and a long knife. I felt like Rambo fighting his own lonesome war. I reached the shed in the pitch-dark night and loaded the wheelbarrow quickly which I had to use for all the gear. On the way back through the garden towards the cellar it happened. One of the bastards emerged from behind a bush. In a matter of seconds he hit me with his greedy claws at my neck. The answer was a shot with the gun. There was nothing left where his head has been but I remember that it must have been George, my old mate from better times. I hurried back to the house and disinfected the claw marks immediately.
The generator purrs downstairs and I'm able to write down the course of events to my text editor. I have the horrid feeling that it could be me now yelling out: "I might caught the fucking virus!". I'm so tired.
The alarm clock shows 2:04 PM. I slept almost 12 hours. I don't feel ill or feverish at all. Instead very strong and full of beans! I will try to proof whether Gräber's story has something to do with reality or not. First I'll make a little excursion and later on in the evening I'll search the net.
I was so lucky yesterday to be not infected! Today I think it all comes to an end very quickly. I write down my findings now and then I have to dash to London.
Finding Gräber's former house near Finchingfield was pretty easy. Unfortunately everything was abandoned for the family fled or got infected. I couldn't ask anybody and searching the house revealed nothing. On the other hand: Fortunately the whole place was abandoned. Once in a while a body but no undead scum or even humans. Nonetheless I walked around like Rambo again yet better protected. I more or less expected that; thus I had another approach. I went to a couple of surgeons and a dentist to find records of Gräber. Maybe he never was a real person?
He was. At the dentist I found records of him. I got into several other surgeries. Scarcely anything. Then I finally entered the psychiatrist's place. Bingo! A lengthy record of his sessions. I sat down and read it for maybe 20 minutes. Gräber obviously was mentally disordered and had a mild form of Alzheimer's disease. Due to all the horrid and shocking events during the war. He must have seen thousands of mutilated corpses. The abyss of mankind. I was so fascinated that I did not hear some-one or better something approaching. I turned around abruptly, the rotten undead body of the psychiatrist emerged behind me. I was paralysed for a few seconds. My fault. He had time enough to bite me. Just a small lesion at my throat but a big gate for the pathogenic agents! He was a runner. Not the kind of the gammy, brain-dead bastard. Despite his dexterity he had no chance to bite another one. The pump-gun is the law and I am the executioner!
I put everything what might kill germs on the wound. It helped once, why not now? At that moment I was doomed already.
On my way back home I realised that I have to act swiftly now. Two things are left to do:
1. Spread my and Dr. Gräber's notes (via internet)
2. Blow myself away!
Sure thing. No connection to the net. Shit. I'll grab my weapons and the laptop and drive to somewhere East-London. I hope to find another face mask for I can't risk to infect some one in the save zone. Eventually I have to deal with people for the sake of being online again.
Good bye old house, rest in peace Dad!
The trip took three hours and I managed to write down my last words here in an intact internet-cafe. The staffers might have a suspicion. I am tired out and ill after all. I would like to go home and end my life there but I don't have time to waste. I can feel the ongoing changes and concentration swoons. I think I'll set myself on fire and blast my head away. I'm a suicide, no survivor.
Whoever gets hold of this document use it to find the truth and hopefully stop this ghastly disease!