DOZ: Dawn of Zombies Lore

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Aug 7, 2018
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You're one of the survivors, Roamer — the stalker of the wastelands. You have to explore the Last Territories, the anomalous aberration zone mysteriously survived the war. Here, man is more dangerous than beast, here you can be killed for a can of tinned meat and worn shoes. Somewhere in the Territories, your last friend, a lone wolf aberration expert, has disappeared.


Only he can help you regain your memory and survive…



Luka’s record

With the next update players will finally meet the Striders, or more precisely, with the Klim's Crew. Not all the Striders are so experienced as Klim. You will find several records made by young guide Luka in the Warehouse. Here is one of them:

Dammit, she's nowhere to be seen! I'm going deeper. I've never been here alone.
I shot down two ghouls. The rest of them are staying away for now.
I wouldn’t want to meet that beast Klim told us about, the Carnifex. The Undying Torturer.

I mean, it's a dumb story! There was a bandit in the Warehouse before the Conflagration called Skinny. A local torturer, a violent weirdo. Mom's sweet baby, her right hand. He punished loads of people, burned them, hung them on hooks. After the war, when his gang was in hiding underground, he started eating human flesh.

He would be a most welcome guest in Hell.

Bad luck, he doesn't get to die. He got into a rare aberration in the catacomb, a Scarlet Sphere. It turned him into a ghoul, and then he mutated into something inconceivable. Like a Stinger, only smarter—and seemingly, much much worse.

I haven't seen him myself, Klim also said it was all rumor. I don't get it. How can he be worse than a Stinger? Can it get any worse?
And you can't kill the Warehouse Carnifex. Burn him, stab him, or shoot him—he'll still come back. The Undying Torturer.
I mean, it's nonsense!

I'm sure Klim is making it up. I remember him saying that Sherp was invincible, too.
Where's Sherp now? Where's that invincible guide? He's gone, isn't he. It's Luka now.
I've been a little hasty, though. I can't go any further without proper gear.

Gotta grab it from my cache by the booth. Hold on, silly. I won't be a minute. It's not far from here.

Dammit, where is that creepy sound coming from?
[Recording stops.]



Extract from report addressed to Major Solopov

From the Citadel Corps archives

... It's time to admit that when it comes to the so-called Decayers, our organisation has faced more than just another regular case of banditry and marauding in the Territories. This problem is much more serious than they care to talk about during the commanders’ briefings and it can't be solved by hastily trained and badly armed militia units.

Field reports indicate that even just in the areas we have under relative control, we are dealing with a totalitarian sect with more than a thousand followers. Most of them are radical militants acting as a part of distributed strike cells. The nature of their activities — ranging from acts of terror and intimidation of the locals to kidnapping, and sabotaging Citadel Corps sites — does not require permanent coordination. This makes each group of militants relatively autonomous from the unknown center and other groups, which seriously complicates our job of clearing the region of hostile elements.

In connection with aforesaid, we consider it advisable to bring up the issue of reinforcing the South-Western District contingent with motorized and tank battalions supported by rocket artillery and mortars. We also ask you to shift supply convoys to the Steel supporting scheme with an escort of Falcatus armored vehicles, reconnaissance drones and armored personnel carriers.

The decision made: Are they completely crazy? Tanks, mortars, exoskeletons. Nonsense. Denied. Solopov.

Postscript in the same handwriting below: A copy of this report should be sent to the Commissariat to fight against panic in the SWD headquarters.



Family

(events happened before the Conflagration)

"Mommy finger, mommy finger, where are you...?"
A bowie blade slithers across Behemoth's fingers, one by one.
"Daddy finger, daddy finger, where are you...?"

"Please, mom, please, don't!" Behemoth's broad keg-like back is shaking, his dull eyes with pinpoint pupils following the bowie blade. No one is holding him back. No one could, in fact. Behemoth is way too strong for that. He knows he can't move. He knows a thing or two about discipline. "I won't do it a..."

"Here I am, here I am! I never made any dough of my own! I robbed the gang's coffers!" The woman roars like thunder. The blade flashes, bringing tears to Behemoth's eye. A severed finger bounces off into a corner of the storage room, but Behemoth doesn't see it.
Mom routinely wipes off the blade with her shop apron. A skinny pale bandit, Behemoth's brother, comes up to her and takes the blade, drooling over the drops of blood. He bends over obediently as he grabs the knife, and she kisses him on the back of his head.
"That's education, my good-for-nothing babies... Who else would teach you stuff?" Gold-capped teeth flash in her mouth. "Where would you be without mummy's advice?"

"The rookie has his hands full of cold cases, eh?" Shevelev tut-tuts. "A whole family brutally murdered in Sosnovka last week. Eight bodies. Adults, kids, all burned down right in their house, and the investigator doesn't lift a finger."
"Like you didn't know why." The seasoned investigator Karsanov takes a loud sip of tea from a faceted glass. The glass holder tinkles gently.

"The Warehouse gang's covering his district, I know. So what? We've got a crapload of evidence against them. I say, we nail 'em to the wall. Cheeki-breeki i v damki. Prep your shoulder for another star."

"This is exactly why you're unfit to fill his position, Shevelev. You ask too many questions. Your solutions are primitive, you don't think them through. Even the city cops avoid the Warehouse gang like the plague. Dispatchers don't take calls from Sosnovka. Nobody wants this pain in the butt."

"I'm aware. They summoned Mom to the department at first," says Shevelev. "And every time there was an order to release her. I hear that the prosecution office..."

"That's none of your business," Karsanov interrupts. "Things like these... if the capital learns about them, we'll be famous throughout the country. How do you feel about the nickname 'Garkov Reapers'? There's no scraping that off!"

Sunlight reflects from the polished star on Shevelev's shoulder, dazzling Karsanov for a brief moment. The autumn has begun.

Blue Zhiguli-9 brakes squeal outside a pawn shop. Two men jump out of the car, dragging and pulling by the arms a big dude, whose beefy shoulders prop up the car roof. All three hurry inside the building.

The latter shoots a burst into the ceiling from his AK as he enters. Crumbs of white paint sprinkle down. Shots, shouts, clanking metal, and shattering glass are heard from inside for a while, then the three men drag out three human-sized bags. Two bags go in the trunk, the last one goes in the car. Whoever is inside is kicking.

"I like the red-head. I think I'm gonna propose," the Behemoth says, spreading his bandaged hands. The driver takes a second then hits the gas.

There's a loud rumble in the Warehouse. The skinny man walks up to an employee, glass shards cracking under his feet. The employee is cringing on the floor, his head buried in his hands.

"Whoever hired this boozer to handle the..." Skinny interrupts himself. He pulls out his PM and shoots the culprit in the head without looking. "To handle the hooch, screwed up."

Fumes of tainted vodka fill the basement. Two saleswomen exchange glances and drag the dead body by the feet to the next room without uttering a word.

Skinny never draws a reply. He orders in a calm voice, "Feed him to pigs," and continues his rounds. "And don't spit it out to Mom."
"The pigs are fine, brother," says a very fat pig-like bandit with a cleaver from the kitchen. He shouts at the women, "Shove him into freezer for future use!"

The freezer door opens, revealing an enormous heap of frozen, frosted human bodies. Another working day begins at the Warehouse.



Undertakers

Transcript of radio message from Lt Sezov of the Citadel Corps

Lieutenant Sezov reporting. For the attention of the commander – the hit squad entrusted to me have been completely destroyed. The Undertakers were aware of our intentions and routes.

They attacked us at our second halt. After sunset the comms were down—all frequencies were jammed. Later we picked up howling sounds we couldn’t make out. Though there had been no visual sighting, I alarmed the soldiers.

A few minutes later dozens of fires broke out and surrounded the camp perimeter and the howling sound returned and circled us. The flame had a red tint, as well as the smoke, which drifted low over the ground. It didn’t make sense, but the smoke was spreading out towards people.

The troops took all-around defense. The smoke spread rapidly, gas masks didn’t help. I could hear soldiers coughing and swearing all around.

Visibility dropped to zero, and it was then that the chanting— this howling— started to close in. The smoke must have contained some sort of drug. Men lost control and opened fire at random. Orders were being ignored. Then, the Undertakers attacked us running straight out of the smoke.

I passed out after a blow to the head. When I came to, I was tied up. The camp was in ruins. A bunch of Undertakers led by their priest were looking for survivors: they dragged them towards the center of a circle made of bones and rusty totems.

I thought I would fall victim to one of the dreadful rituals of those fanatics. The reality turned out to be much worse and a lot wilder.
The priest put an artifact on the chest of the soldier tied up inside the circle. It was a polyhedron made of black stone similar to obsidian. Then the priest and his henchmen started howling and swaying with their eyes closed. This had the same effect each time—the captive started screaming and then … it seemed as if he was boiling up inside and then he exploded.

That is how nine people died one by one in front of me. After each murder the priest looked dissatisfied.

When there was no one else from the squad left, it was my turn.

The priest started to sing. I felt no pain. Instead, a feeling of lightness and a surge of energy. My injuries including two bullet wounds and the abrasion on my head stopped bleeding and healed up. The artifact, the black polyhedron, was plunged into my chest and I passed out.
I woke up in the middle of the circle. While I was unconscious, Undertakers cut the ropes that I was tied up with and walked away. There was a backpack full of supplies, my AKM, and a strange rag doll, which I’d noticed on the priest’s hip—all at my feet as an offering.

I found this intact radio set and now am recording my last report. There is nothing more I can do, my body barely obeys me any longer.
I’m heading for the Sarcophagus.



Riveter

Riveter is the first person you will meet in the game. She is a radio operator, assistant to a mysterious strider, Sherp, and an experienced survivor. Riveter will become your first assistant, teach you how to survive, and help to establish important relationships. Listen to Riveter carefully, she’d never let you down or give bad advice.

She doesn’t like telling her story to others and prefers to share her thoughts with her diary. During the game you will find pages from this diary. They will shed light on some of the mysteries of the post-apocalypse world.

Riveter’s diary, page 1

Diary… yes, now I’m gonna keep a diary.

Sherp—my companion— says, putting your thoughts down on paper is a way to clear one’s head. A lot of people used to do so before the Conflagration. And my head is splitting from the problems I have.

During our last sortie we found this house. A secluded one, Sherp named it a Shelter. I found some copybooks here and can now make notes on anything I want.

No idea who’s lived here before. I wonder why they left the big house full of good stuff. Who made them leave...or what?
I don’t know how long we’re gonna stay in the Shelter. Striders like Sherp don’t stay long in one place. But I wouldn’t mind settling down for a while. Having a break. But Sherp is not the kind of man who needs a break.

Damn, my pen is running ou.. [words are fading and cease]
 
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