March 26th

It's been three days since we relocated to our new base. I managed to salvage Mason's computer from the wreckage, but unfortunately, I couldn't save him. The data in his brain was far more valuable than anything stored on this old laptop. Sadly, that data is now in the belly of a zombie.

Before the last base was overrun, Mason joked about whether zombies would find an engineer's brain tastier than a regular guard’s because it holds more knowledge. I shot back, asking if he could tell which chicken was the Einstein of its flock when eating. He went silent, probably thinking about the canned chicken we found in that abandoned house last week. That can was tastier than any feast before the Z-virus outbreak, but it didn't mean the chicken was smarter. It just showed how desperate we are in this apocalypse.

So, I guess Mason's tastiness depends on how hungry the zombie was.

God, what am I even saying?

I know we're all on the brink of breakdown and madness in these end times. The worst part is being on the "brink." The human mind's adaptability is such that mine keeps functioning, even under these conditions. That final thread of sanity is always taut, but it never snaps, never offers release.

It almost makes me envious of Sasha. I'm sitting here, numbly typing these words, trying to hold onto my sanity, while she's in the cage behind me, screaming just for food.

It’s so unfair.

We're both starving, yet I have to keep my wits about me. For them, fresh, walking meals are everywhere.

It makes me want to test Mason's theory—no, not the one about brains being tastier. I mean his other, less hellish but equally crazy idea.

These damn zombies, now walking in the decayed shells of our neighbors, family, loved ones, and enemies—what are they thinking with their rotting brains?

If you’re reading this, don’t dismiss it as some kind of philosophical exercise or delusion. I can give you proof, but not today. I need to shut down this damn computer and find some food before I end up trying to eat Sasha.

March 27th

I know my writing doesn’t exactly fit the tone of a report to the higher-ups in the survivor team. And I know you have fancier titles, like "The Ark" or "The Last Elect," but let's drop the formalities. As long as you understand me, that’s what matters.

Now, I need to explain the question I didn't get to prove yesterday: Do zombies think? Let Sasha answer that.

Ah-aaa-oooh.

Ahhh—

Okay, you can’t understand that, but it’s not just noise. It’s a signal. Mason and I recorded over 7,000 zombie vocalizations. Sasha, being the only specimen allowed in my lab, has 857 unique sounds. We listened to them all, night after night, like some twisted midnight radio or ASMR playlist. It taught us two things: biologists and IT geeks can get really bored, and zombies do send signals.

It's a bit like Morse code, but not quite.

In Sasha's growls, there's a sound that's a mix between "ah" and "oh." If a human made it, it would be "aaw." But Sasha’s version has a low, throaty vibration. This sound appears in 548 of her 857 growls, almost always at the end, and every time she's near a living person.

So we listened to those 548 sounds again, recorded their waveforms, and compared them. Despite differences in pitch, rhythm, and duration—often muddied by the wet gurgling from her decaying lungs—the underlying pattern was the same.

Ah-aaa-oooh.

Mason and I reached a unanimous conclusion: “Detected prey/food” or “Calling for companions.”

That’s the best we could figure.

Then came the long process of cross-referencing and comparing. We listened to all 7,000 zombie sounds again. At first, I had nightmares—zombies breaking down our doors, snarling in my ears. But by the end, I was analyzing which zombie's voice was more... pleasant.

Mason, on the other hand, was different. It was like the Z-virus was spreading through sound alone. Every time he heard an "ah-aaa-oooh," he turned paler, as if he was becoming the prey those signals were calling for.

On the seventh day of re-listening, Mason snapped.

He tried to grab a gun from one of the guards. Of course, he didn’t succeed (the guards eat better than we do). I thought he was going to shoot himself, but instead, he started shouting at Sasha, trying to kill her. I don’t know what she did to piss him off. She may be a zombie, but she’s been a pretty good roommate—aside from the noise—and a compliant test subject, never complaining about the electric shocks or injections.

I wish I could get Sasha’s opinion on this. And actually, I can.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

I’ll tell you next time.

April 8th

It’s been a while since my last entry. Don’t worry, I’m still alive. I’ve just been out gathering data—a task that sounds a bit gruesome, but you have to admit, in this mutated era, survival often comes with a side of cruelty.

Okay, it’s not as bad as it sounds. No one—or no zombie—was harmed in the process. If anything, what took a hit was my conscience. The goal was noble, the process was safe, and the results are still unknown, but likely beneficial. It just feels... uncomfortable to talk about.

I recorded brainwave patterns from 400 people in Base B—men, women, children, the elderly, and the strong. I implanted biological chips in them as markers. Yes, it’s that simple. The chips are cheap and mainly used to replace dog tags for soldiers, though more people seem to care about food rations than these high-tech gadgets. I just had them say a few phrases, like "I’m hungry" or "There’s food here," which I think might be the primary signals zombies use. To cover the experiment’s true purpose, I mixed in phrases like "Good morning" and "Goodbye," or even let them say whatever they wanted. Of course, most of what I recorded was heartbreaking. People thought this was a chance to leave their last words or a disguised way to do so.

Over those days, I probably heard more anguished confessions than any priest at a death row execution.

I forced myself to focus on the brainwave graphs, not their eyes—I couldn’t bear to imagine what they’d look like once they became samples.

Anyway, I finished the recordings, grouped them by the phrases and wavelengths, and stored them. It might be a clumsy method, but I believe it will work. It just shows results in a way that's... hard to accept.

The part of me that’s still human hopes these results take a long time to manifest. But the scholar in me, cruel as it sounds, secretly hopes at least one or two of them—preferably those with questionable morals—become my research subjects.

If any of them turn into zombies and are captured, I’ll be able to compare their brainwaves when they were human to those when they’re zombies. To put it simply, if the brainwave pattern of a zombie’s “ah-aaa-oooh” matches that of a living person saying “There’s food here,” then Mason and I were right.

I know this method sounds unreliable, and it requires a terrible, painful final sample for comparison.

But I’m sure it’s worth it.

I swear on Mason’s brain.

June 15th

Base B has been “flooded.”

We now refer to overrun zones as “flooded.” It’s the only word that can convey the way the zombie hordes come rushing in like a tide, without causing too much panic—at least it brings to mind water at first glance.

Most people are crying and mourning. I immediately sought out Joseph, the leader of the survivor rescue team. I made a deal with him—seven cans of Spam (my meat ration for the next three months) and half a year’s worth of fruit vouchers in exchange for bringing back some "people."

Of course, those “people” aren’t meant to be saved for the living world. Their intelligence, love, and souls went to that other world before their bodies did. What I need are their hungry brainwaves and futile howls.

Because most of the participants had intact arms, I was able to track them down using the biological chips I had implanted. Joseph and his crew, a group of elite firefighters, police officers, and dog catchers, managed to bring back seven samples at the cost of one of their own, along with three of my molars and four ribs.

Mostly adults, but there were children too.

I have to admit, I despise Joseph’s team for doing their job so well.

I even worry that they might have injected the Z-virus into seven survivors. I know that’s unlikely, but I have to think the worst of people around me to keep the courage to continue my experiments and survive.

This experiment might not yield any positive results and might cost the lives of one—or eight—innocent people.

Regardless, I need to uncover that cruel truth. In fact, our district leader, Alexander, is very interested in the results. While he doesn’t agree with my idea of “trying to communicate with zombies,” he’s keen on the idea of creating a transmitter that could disrupt their signals.

So, are Mason’s and my wild ideas about to become humanity’s future strategy for fighting and surviving?

God, that would truly be the end of the world.

June 20th

Below is a summary and analysis of zombie vocalizations. I’ve only selected the most important details, as the full content is too lengthy.

"Ah-aaa-oooh" means "Prey is here."

"Oh-oh-oo" is a call to others, though why zombies tend to group even without prey remains a mystery.

"Mm-oh" is a signal for identifying fellow zombies, but it’s ignored when produced by humans or recordings. The exact method of recognition among zombies is still unclear.

"Roar-ah" appears to be similar to the purring of feline animals, which helps heal bones. In zombies, this sound seems to force their non-functional stomachs to move, stimulating their hunger.

I've also included a list of various unidentified alert signals in the appendix.

Conclusion: Zombies do have the ability to emit signals, but these are purely functional, similar to residual nervous system responses and cannot be classified as language. Currently, there is no way to simulate or interfere with these signals. It's recommended to kill any zombie emitting the "Aa-aa-oo" sound as quickly as possible, preferably with a headshot, to prevent them from summoning others.

June 20th

This entry is from my personal journal and doesn't need to be submitted to Alexander. The real results of the experiment are here. I’m withholding them not out of spite against Alexander, though he did dismiss my work as useless, which, honestly, is fair. My report was mostly filled with correct but redundant information, including the obvious advice to aim for the head when shooting zombies.

Damn, my stomach hurts—not because my monthly ration of luncheon meat is now reduced to two ounces, or because I got punched in the gut as a joke when I was demoted—but because I remembered the way Mason looked at Sasha that day.

It was pity.

There are new researchers working with Sasha now. For me, this is a kind of salvation. I no longer have to listen to her howls.

I only just discovered what those howls really meant.

The experiment was a success, but the real results aren’t in the report. Instead of simulating zombie language to disrupt them, I fabricated the report to avoid disrupting the soldiers. If they knew the truth, I worry they might hesitate to shoot zombies in the future—or worse, turn the guns on themselves first.

What those zombies were saying—well, it’s better you hear it from them.

I’m going to play the howls of a sample zombie alongside the recorded voices of the same person when they were still human. The brainwave patterns of these two sounds are identical—in other words, what you're about to hear is the zombie language and its human translation.

"Christine, I miss you so much."

"Help, I’m in so much pain, but I’m so hungry."

"Where are Mom and Dad?"

"Do you know Eric? I’m looking for him..."

"I’m so cold, could you pour me a cup of hot cocoa?"

"This is how the universe works. ehfhdi+4576735's square root equals Alpha!"

And then, endlessly, the overwhelming cry of

"Ah-aaa-oooh" — "Please, kill me."