“To each their own.” That's what they'll say when we win this war. Who are “they,” you ask? “They” are our Masters. They are the equivalent to your teachers, but worlds smarter and stranger. The reason they say that is because you need to pay for your “mistake” or something like that. Well, what’s the “mistake?” We are the “mistake” and you will pay for it. I don't know why we need to fight but our masters tell us it's the only way we can live on the surface. We live about six miles underneath you and there are 725 floors going down below that. In a facility that is somewhat like an inverted pyramid. Fourteen football fields square at the top and each floor comes out about five feet so that we can jump down and land on the floor we need to be on. It's about as large as seven Empire State Buildings going straight down underground. And who are we, you ask? Allow me to introduce myself.
My name is Víctor Veeshera, it's pronounced (Veek-tore Vee-shehr-ah) don't pronounce it wrong you'll just piss me off. It also sounds cool if you say it with a Russian accent. By the way, you really do not want to piss me off, ‘cause I can kill you with no effort at all. Then again you may be thinking that a good punch to the face would stop me or maybe a shot to the heart. But think upon one fact, I'm a Zombie. “How the **** are you talking to me? You're dead, right?” Technically I am dead, but medically I'm not. My heart still beats but I am still “dead.”
“Dead” does not mean much to us Zombies. The only thing we worry about is when our hearts actually do stop beating. When that happens, it means we have approximately one year left to “live.” We turn into the stereotypical brainless Zombies you guys know. And trust me, it's pretty hard to tell if our hearts stop because our hearts only beat, at most, about five times a minute. It takes an entire day to realize that your heart has stopped. Although it is a false alarm most of the time, it's always sad when it ends up being real. If it so happens that your heart does stop, you are destroyed by anyone that offers to do it. More times than not, it’s my dad that does it. I'll explain more about this issue later.
Back to the experimental mystery. You're probably wondering how I am talking to you intelligently though, right? All the movies you see of our senseless, brain-hungry brethren, those are all true. They are our predecessors. Failures. We are all a “Failed Experiment” by your government. None of us are really sure how we were created or by who, but it has gone on for centuries. Except for my dad; we all assume he knows something, but he refuses to speak about it. Whenever someone asks, he simply says to them, “In due time.” That's enough of my babbling. It's time for you to meet the other Zombies.