He paused. The groaning grew louder. It sounded almost like speech. A word, repeated, muffled by rotting flesh: “Index.”
Aris Thorne smiled a cold, hollow smile. The zombies had started reading.
Category: Omega. Subclass: Cognizant. Symptoms: Minimal necrosis. Retains 60-80% of pre-mortem cognitive function. Capable of tool use, ambush tactics, and avoidance of common deterrents. Displays emotional mimicry. Threat Level: Unpredictable. Note: Does not respond to standard cranial breach. Target must be incinerated. index of zombie
This was the one that kept Aris awake. The Revenants were the new ones, the freshly turned who still looked almost human. They could weep, speak fragmented phrases, and even smile. They used doors. They remembered where the armory was. One had been found standing outside its former home, holding a rusted key, as if waiting for someone to let it in.
Dr. Aris Thorne didn't slay zombies. He filed them. For the past eleven months, since the Great Rising, he had been the chief architect of the Zombie Index , a living (if one could call it that) document that aimed to bring order to the apocalypse. The Index was the Consolidated Undead Catalog, Version 4.7, stored in the hardened servers of what was left of the Centers for Disease Control. It was a dry, terrifying, and utterly essential bible for the survivors of the Fall. He paused
Reproduction rate of the undead. Current estimate: 1.4. For every one zombie neutralized, 1.4 new hosts are infected. Net population growth: +40% weekly.
Aris’s finger traced the screen. The Walkers were the baseline, the rotting hordes that filled the highways and suburban lawns. They were the index against which all other horrors were measured. But the Index had grown fat with new entries. A word, repeated, muffled by rotting flesh: “Index
A soft groan echoed from the ventilation shaft. Aris didn’t reach for his gun. He reached for his keyboard. A new variant, perhaps. Another line of data.