(no subject)
Any American with a love of horror movies could recognize it without effort. That distinct rasping, mindless noise can only mean the approach of what is commonly known as a "zombie". Walking dead. Nosferatu. Call them what you will, but the meaning is the same the world over: human corpses, reanimated into cannibalistic berserkers hell-bent on the consumption of living flesh.
There is no fear. There has never been any fear.
Wesker is in an advantageous position when it comes to dealing with the undead. He created them, after all. He knows everything there is to know about zombies, every fact, every statistic. Facts and figures race through his mind, but several in particular seem to stick out.
The scratching at the door disturbs his concentration for but a moment.
One. Zombies have no mind, hive or otherwise. They do not think. There is a parasite that infects a caterpillar and causes it to sit on a leaf in broad daylight, where it is eaten by a bird, thus infecting the bird. The virus works the same way. Zombies are merely corpses animated by a virus intent on spreading itself. They do not think. They are not thinking about what they are going to do to me.
It sounds like there are more of them now. No fear.
Two. Zombies cannot speak. The virus is not nearly advanced enough to access a deceased brain's higher functions. The grotesque, guttural groaning filling his ears is merely air expelled from the corpse's lungs. Any qualities his mind may attribute to it, such as "hungry" or "angry", are purely the work of his imagination.
He hears voices, somewhere. "Sie sind ein unartiger junge Albert gewesen!"
Three. Zombies do not eat. As stated above, the virus's only purpose, the only purpose he gave it, is to multiply itself. Its carriers are not motivated by hunger, but by a desire to spread the virus to other potential carriers. The fact that they continue to eat their victims past the moment of infection is a design flaw that he opted to keep in, for what could be more demoralizing to enemy troops than the primal human fear of being eaten? It is all purely scientific in nature. They are not coming to eat me. They are coming to infect me.
"Wissen sie was geschieht mit unartigen jungen?"
The rotting door is beginning to splinter, and he catches the first glimpses of equally rotting hands. There is no fear. Wesker has faced them before, always triumphant. Always triumphant. There has never been fear, and there never will be.
But there is the matter of his hands, the trembling and dirty hands of an emaciated six-year-old. There is the matter of this cellar, which he recognizes and fervently wishes he didn't. There is, of course, the matter of the zombies. He puts a name to every decaying face.
Albert realizes that there may in fact be a great deal of fear here after all.
"Unartige jungen werden GEGESSEN!"
The door breaks.
[[Wesker's nightmare- he is back in the cellar from his first orphanage, but this time, it's being invaded by zombies. He will shoot at anyone who approaches him. 1% spent on the T-Virus, 1% spent on zombies, 1% spent on his early childhood. 7% total regain.]]
There is no fear. There has never been any fear.
Wesker is in an advantageous position when it comes to dealing with the undead. He created them, after all. He knows everything there is to know about zombies, every fact, every statistic. Facts and figures race through his mind, but several in particular seem to stick out.
The scratching at the door disturbs his concentration for but a moment.
One. Zombies have no mind, hive or otherwise. They do not think. There is a parasite that infects a caterpillar and causes it to sit on a leaf in broad daylight, where it is eaten by a bird, thus infecting the bird. The virus works the same way. Zombies are merely corpses animated by a virus intent on spreading itself. They do not think. They are not thinking about what they are going to do to me.
It sounds like there are more of them now. No fear.
Two. Zombies cannot speak. The virus is not nearly advanced enough to access a deceased brain's higher functions. The grotesque, guttural groaning filling his ears is merely air expelled from the corpse's lungs. Any qualities his mind may attribute to it, such as "hungry" or "angry", are purely the work of his imagination.
He hears voices, somewhere. "Sie sind ein unartiger junge Albert gewesen!"
Three. Zombies do not eat. As stated above, the virus's only purpose, the only purpose he gave it, is to multiply itself. Its carriers are not motivated by hunger, but by a desire to spread the virus to other potential carriers. The fact that they continue to eat their victims past the moment of infection is a design flaw that he opted to keep in, for what could be more demoralizing to enemy troops than the primal human fear of being eaten? It is all purely scientific in nature. They are not coming to eat me. They are coming to infect me.
"Wissen sie was geschieht mit unartigen jungen?"
The rotting door is beginning to splinter, and he catches the first glimpses of equally rotting hands. There is no fear. Wesker has faced them before, always triumphant. Always triumphant. There has never been fear, and there never will be.
But there is the matter of his hands, the trembling and dirty hands of an emaciated six-year-old. There is the matter of this cellar, which he recognizes and fervently wishes he didn't. There is, of course, the matter of the zombies. He puts a name to every decaying face.
Albert realizes that there may in fact be a great deal of fear here after all.
"Unartige jungen werden GEGESSEN!"
The door breaks.
[[Wesker's nightmare- he is back in the cellar from his first orphanage, but this time, it's being invaded by zombies. He will shoot at anyone who approaches him. 1% spent on the T-Virus, 1% spent on zombies, 1% spent on his early childhood. 7% total regain.]]