Lead Writter
So. Hi. I guess.
This wasn’t really supposed to be a thing. I’m not one for big speeches or Porto Morto TED Talks. Most days, I barely speak above a mumble unless someone tilts a pinball machine. Not because I don’t have thoughts, though I’m sure that’s what people like to believe about the zombified.
Mindless. Numb. Just drooling through eternity.
And yeah, my day-to-day isn’t exactly screaming main character energy: Arcade maintenance. Skate park for the breeze. Rooftop jam solo at night.
Simple. Quiet. The perfect afterlife. At least, it used to be.
Lately… the silence feels rigged. Like something’s pressing down. Watching. Like the background music changed and no one else noticed.
No one’s saying anything. So I guess that means it’s my turn.
I wasn’t special. Just a loner kid from a zealous small town. I talked back. Got labeled “defective” which, honestly, felt accurate in a good way.
Next thing I knew, I was shipped off on the now infamous cruise with a bunch of other “bad seeds,” sent to spread the Good Word across the Atlantic islands. Instead, what we ended up spreading was the first iteration of the zombiric virus. Whoopsie
But to my surprise, for the first time, I felt alive.
Rotting was freedom. No rules. No lectures. Just existence.
We landed in Porto Morto and made it our home. We built something weird and real. It wasn’t perfect. But it was OURS.
Then the boxes started falling.
Heavy wooden crates. Government font. “C.A.R.E. Packages.”
Still not sure what it actually stands for. Clueless Assholes Reprogramming Everything, maybe? Inside we found bow wrapped vaccines, glossy brochures, and enough manufactured goodwill to choke a motivational speaker.
Sniffing trouble, we brought the boxes to Dr. Noodlebrain, our local genius (albeit morally questionable). He’s the closest thing this island has to a scientific authority. After a few tests on an unsuspecting zombified raccoon (RIP Scuttles), and some deeply unsettling smells, he confirmed it: the vaccines held the cure.
They wanted us to “return” to normal. To cure ourselves. Blend in. Pay taxes, probably. Spoiler: We didn’t.
We dumped the vaccines in the ocean and held a bonfire with the crates. Ziggy spun vinyls. Morticia brought pickled fingers. Randy face-planted in a tide pool.
For a moment, we thought we’d dodged it. We were wrong.
Now it’s not just crates. Posters stapled to palm trees overnight, pamphlets tucked into beach towels. Flickering power. Static in the speakers. Most folks don’t notice, or they pretend not to.
But me and a few others are done pretending. We’re gluing wires. Hacking speakers. Making noise. Watching the watchers, and reaching out to allies.
Like you.
So keep us on your radar. Follow our Discord. Help us make noise.
Because something tells me the worst is still crawling our way.
And when it gets here?
We’re ready to bite back.
Pun absolutely intended.
— Rotzy
Arcade witch. Signal booster. Proudly uncured.
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