Baltimore Adagio
Chris Walters
Arrived at Washington D.C. Emergency Army Headquarters, in the possession of Private Arnold Hassenfuss, previously missing and presumed dead, April 21, 2012. Copies have been sent to the appropriate agencies, whenever possible, for analysis.
To whom it may concern: the following is a record of my activities since the beginning of the current crisis, to the repatriation of Private Hassenfuss to the care of the United States Army.
I arrived in Baltimore, my former home of many years, in February of this year. I had a bit of business to attend to, in addressing some libelous statements made about me by a former colleague in a respected medical journal. I feel such things are best handled in person, as involving the courts removes the humanity of those involved.
My first errand was to call on an old friend from the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra, that I might secure a place to sleep. He was on his way out of town, and had no objections to allowing me to make his home my own for the duration of my visit.
I chose this friend’s home for its many amenities, such as a high wall around the yard for privacy, a fine and fully stocked pantry and kitchen, and supplies set aside in case of emergency. One can’t be too careful.
I rested the day I acquired my lodgings, enjoying the musical library of a professional classical musician, and availing myself of his larder. The following day, well rested and fed, I called on my former colleague.
I must admit he was somewhat startled to see me, the years having stretched on with no word between us. I got quickly to business, and in short order he apologized for the disparaging remarks he had made about me. He even offered to have an apology printed in the same journal, but I assured him that would not be necessary.
Upon satisfactory completion of my errand, I then made my way around my former home city, visiting delicatessens and gourmet shops I remembered from years gone by. The proprietors did not recognize me, and preferring to avoid the awkwardness of refreshing their memories and the banality of “catching up”, I allowed them to think me an anonymous customer.
With the ingredients for a celebratory meal, (a tradition of mine, after completing arduous, or time consuming tasks) I made my way back to my lodgings.
It was dusk by the time sauces were prepared, and meats in the marinades, and I decided to make it a late supper. Having been distracted by my culinary activities, and rather insulated from outside noise by Mozart, I had failed to notice the commotion outside; several fires raged nearby, and the sound of emergency vehicles began to compete with the stereo.
I turned off the music, and turned on the television, something to which I am not accustomed. A local station was showing footage of a reporter, bearing strangely familiar wounds, giving an incoherent account of recent events at Johns Hopkins Hospital. Behind the reporter were many armed police, both in regular uniform and riot gear, weapons pointed toward the emergency room entrance.
The reporter was interrupted by shouting from the police. The camera panned shakily toward a figure shambling from the hospital. It was my former colleague, eyes fogged, face smeared with blood. The only apparent wound he bore was a great red stain on the right of his shirt, just below the ribs.
The Doctor failed to heed the warnings of the police, and was consequently shot several times. I confess I was relieved that I had seen him earlier, and gotten my satisfaction.
It was then that I remembered my waiting meal, and decided that my appetite was no longer up to the task. I refrigerated the ingredients, then made a complete check of the outside gates, and the supplies left me by my friend. They were as follows:
- Two 12 Gauge Shotguns, one Remington, the other Beretta, with 400 shells.
- A portable Honda gasoline powered generator, in position to take over if city power failed, and 50 gallons of gasoline.
- Various tools, ranging from automotive, to basic carpentry, and electrical.
- Canned and dry goods for a month of meals.
I had often chided my friend, and now surreptitious benefactor, about his insistence on preparedness. I had joked that he seemed a bit effete for the survivalist type, and perhaps he should see me professionally as well as socially, to treat this apparent paranoia. At this moment, I was relieved he had not taken me seriously.
I spent the remainder of the night in the dark, window open, listening to the music of the city, as it went from full Wagnerian symphony, with an accompaniment of screaming, engines and machines, to an adagio of roaring flames, and distant gunshots. By dawn the performance was ended.
I heard only the most distant of activity that first day; brief bursts of automatic weapon fire, explosions as fires left burning consumed fuel tanks, but no engine noise. A helicopter passed a few miles to the east, but nothing seemed to be happening near me.
Once again I turned on the “TV”. All local stations ran the same blank screen with a scrolling list of “rescue stations”. ‘How optimistic’, I thought. Two of the formerly competing cable news stations were uniformly falling apart, like old Robber Barons whose advanced age has stripped them of the dignity of continence and social grace, but left in them the competitive spirit. They continued several days, broadcasting non-information, and replaying tapes of “experts” saying they were useless, but not realizing it in their hubris. Never the less, the consensus was that the dead were returning to life, and attacking the living.
I spent the day in silence, listening at the window, and acquainting myself with the nuances of my two shotguns. I must say, in spite of my love of things Italian, the Remington had earned its reputation as a precision fire-arm.
On the second day, with the noises faded, I decided it would be in my interest to understand the situation outside first hand, do a little “recon”, gather some “intel”. I always travel with good hiking equipment, as one never knows when the outdoors will be more hospitable than “civilization”, and put on my sturdiest boots. I took one of my host's hunting vests, filled all available pockets with shells, took the Remington, and proceeded out the door.
I had gleaned, from the news footage that first night, that the potential assailants I was to meet in the streets were not particularly bright. They seemed only to be attracted to excess stimuli, of which I determined not to be one. I reasoned that if I drew no attention to myself I would be able to make my way unmolested.
It took me several hours of slow, deliberate walking to make my way to the vicinity of Johns Hopkins. Thankfully, I am not a man prone to excessive panic, or I would have fired off needless rounds at scavenging dogs, which I am certain would have proved…inconvenient; it seemed the majority of the walking dead (I may be a medical man, but that does not prevent me seeing what is in front of me) in the city were in Johns Hopkins, or its parking lot.
I made my way to a nearby rooftop, and observed for several hours. I realized that there were only several hundred creatures, rather than the thousands I had originally supposed. A rather useful fact also came to me on that rooftop: the dead avoided fire. A number of vehicles burned in the parking lot, some with occupants uneaten still inside.
I formulated a plan. I would make my way into the hospital, and acquire medical supplies, the one thing my host had neglected to stock up on.
At the edge of the lot were two ambulances, doors open, apparently stopped at what had been a makeshift triage when the Emergency Room had become a bucket to bail a flood. I made my way to them as silently as I could. I crept into one and silently closed the front doors, and switched on the radio. It worked, and the keys were in the ignition. I then checked to see that the other ambulance was so useful, and it was.
The next was a bit tricky: I took an oxygen tank from one “bus” as the police call them, and attached the nozzle between the rear bumper and the gas tank, with the body of the tank hanging down touching the pavement. I wrapped the O2 tank in rags soaked with lighter fluid, and ignited them. I started the vehicle, put it in drive, and ran out the back into the other bus. The idling bus bumped into a poorly parked LaBaron, and because of the recoil from the collision, the O2 tank nozzle snapped off, causing it to rupture the gas tank. The gasoline spilled in a helpful puddle, burning all the while.
The dead had seen the vehicle moving, and rushed to claim their seats at table. I made pleasantly human noises from my bus, broadcast from the radio of the other. Many of the dead in and around the hospital were clawing at the ambulance when it crawled its way to a stop. A few corpses at the back made note of the fire and made to get away. The ones behind, however, pushed them forward. The heat rose quickly, and the other oxygen tanks then exploded, puncturing as I’d hoped, the tank of the LaBaron. In very short order panicking corpses were lighting their companions on fire, as they tried to flee the flames consuming them. I made a mental note of the effect of fire on the undead.
I could not wait for the entire mob to be burned, but rather started my bus and crashed through them into the ambulance bay. The corpses were all by now preoccupied with their own miseries, and paid me no mind as I began my foraging. I did not treat this as a leisurely shopping trip however, and made my way quickly through various departments, and in seven trips had my bus stocked with enough supplies to allow me to perform most any surgery I felt I may need to. One never knows what any given day will bring.
Having acquired all that I had intended, I started the bus, and drove out of the parking lot. A few of the fire victims had survived their burning, and trailing wispy, pork-smelling smoke, made to chase after me. They were considerably more ungainly and ineffectual than previously.
I drove at a cautious speed through the city, until I was within two blocks of my home away from home. Shutting down the engine, I cracked a window and listened.
Hearing no sounds of danger or interest, I began taking my supplies home. It took four trips to get everything into the house.
I left the Bus where I had stopped it, as I preferred to not have sitting in front of my abode, tacitly advertising my presence to anyone, alive or otherwise, with the instincts understand such a sign.
I had learned from my expedition the following things:
- The corpses feared nothing but fire. That is nothing unexpected as it is an instinct common to most vertebrates.
- They are prone to distraction; any enticing noise or motion will lead them. They can thus be controlled, albeit to a limited extent.
Bearing these data in mind, I prepared the brownstone for an extended stay. I made the basement ready for use as an operating theater, as such an exercise should not wait until it is needed. I made sure that a weapon, cleaned and loaded, was with me at all times, and extra ammunition available in any room of the house.
With my home ready, I settled in for an unknown period of waiting. I waited two weeks before routine changed. I heard a large engine one day, diesel I imagined. With the quiet I heard it long before it was near my home. I turned off any appliance that might indicate my presence, and watched from a darkened room as a small, eight-wheeled vehicle rolled past the brownstone. It was camouflage-painted, and sported some type of machine gun on the front of the vehicle. I imagined it to be some type of personnel carrier.
It drove down the street, cresting the hill, and leaving my sight. I paid it little mind, as it had no direct bearing on me at the moment.
Not long after its going out of sight, I heard a collision, then the weapon firing. It turned out to be a .50 caliber. Other weapons shortly joined in, I guessed small arms, in 5.56mm. After thirty seconds or so the gunfire became intermittent, and then ceased. I then heard frantic voices as survivors of whatever ordeal began fleeing back in my direction.
Looking out again I saw three soldiers running in terror, a mob of thirty or so corpses in pursuit. I guessed that another mob was dining heartily on the rest of the unit.
The soldier bringing up the rear turned to fire into the mob and tripped on his own feet. He managed to hit such a way that he dazed himself, and thus provided a distraction allowing the other two to escape, as well as a meal for the mob.
I then decided to have guests. I went to the front gate, open it, stepped out on the street. Calling to the men I urged them to come to safety. They did.
Having locked the gate, I ushered the men inside. They were not a matched set; one was about 6’5”, 220 lbs, approximately 25 years of age, wearing two stripes denoting corporal. The other was average height, about 150lbs., with one stripe, indicating him to be a private. They were both U.S. Army. Ah yes, but you, the intended readers already know this.
Corporal Jake Smenlo and Private Arnold Hassenfuss were shaking with terror and not in a mind to respond with courtesy, so I relax my standards of etiquette, not admonishing them for collapsing into the nearest available chairs without invitation.
I revealed to them that I am a doctor, and offered my services if they were injured. They were not. I extended them my every hospitality, should they require food and drink (for quenching of thirst, or quieting nerves). To the credit of both they reminded me they were on duty, however weakly they said so. They both took only water.
“Well, gentlemen; what is your plan? I have no radio, and the phones are regrettably down.”
“We have a radio in the Stryker.” said the Corporal.
I took “Stryker” to mean the vehicle.
“I don’t advise attempting to get to it at the moment.” I said, attempting to draw out the character of the men. The Corporal obliged.
“No shit, Sherlock. They teach you to point out the obvious in medical school?”
“As a matter of fact, they do not. They prefer one ignore the obvious.”
“Right. Looks like we’re staying with you for a while, Doc.”
“So it would seem.”
I surmised by his demeanor that Cpl. Smenlo suffered from something akin to what is commonly called a Napoleon Complex, though what his inferiority may have been was not obvious by looking. I reasoned it must have been something Freudian.
Private Hassenfuss had not fully collected himself yet. He sat, eyes wide and glistening, waiting for direction. Smenlo had them check their equipment, and Hassenfuss responded well to the imposed discipline of the order. It seemed the boy did not so much lack courage as experience.
While the soldiers saw to their things I put on some music. Mendelssohn seemed the most relaxing choice. Then I went about preparing a meal of Lamb and raspberry sauce.
Smenlo muttered something disparaging about my “preferences” (he didn’t ask so I didn’t tell) because of the music and the meal. He did however, have two helpings.
Private Hassenfuss looked terrified at his portion, and picked nervously at the rice and the rolls. He had not his superior’s ability to shut out images that disgusted him.
After dinner Smenlo’s training kicked in, and he suddenly required that I show him all of my security. A quick tour of the grounds allayed any fears he might have had.
The next day, we visited the “Stryker”. The machine had lost a wheel and become lodged in a derelict Buick, apparently owing to the stupidity of the driver, and a crowd of corpses had gathered in short order. It seemed that the Army had not yet appreciated the fact that Suppressing Fire only worked to deter an enemy which feared for its life.
We gathered all the ammunition available to us, several M-16’s, the fifty caliber, and the radio. Hassenfuss carried the radio, Smenlo the bulk of the ammunition and several rifles, and the rest of it I carried, as well as the machine gun. I must say I enjoyed the look of bafflement afforded me by the soldiers, when over the protestations of the larger, I took up my load, demonstrating that I am “as strong as an ant”, as one of my Biographers once wrote. I’ve long thought it an advantage that my average size belies my physical abilities.
Knowing as I did that Smenlo had objected to my carrying the load, not as a courtesy, but out of a sense of his own inherent superiority, I decided that an experiment was now in order. I sniffed the air, and noticed the unmistakable scent of corpses, all in close proximity.
I began whistling a strain from the previous night’s Mendelssohn, not loudly, but enough to get the attention of a nervous Corporal. It had the desired effect.
“Shut the fuck up, Doc!” he turned and snarled at me. I had guessed correctly that he compensated for any perceived lack in himself with excessive aggression, which manifested in more volume than he wished to project. This is what caught the attention of the near-by corpses.
Before I could feign an apology the dead made their presence known. Hassenfuss looked terrified, but Smenlo suppressed the same look, turning it instead to anger towards me.
“You asshole! We get back to your place, I’m kicking your ass!”
With that he began an ungainly sprint. I over took him easily, as well as Hassenfuss, unlocked the gate, unburdened myself, grabbed an M-16, and went to aid Smenlo. I suggested that the private set down his things and prepare to cover the corporal.
As I had hoped, Smenlo had lost his reason (what there was of it) and had not thought to drop his load. Thus the dead were gaining on him, with one directly behind him, already reaching out.
I took aim with the rifle; Smenlo thought I was aiming at him and stumbled to the ground. I fired, catching the corpse in the pelvis. As I had surmised, this caused its upper body to plummet forward, landing on the legs of the corporal.
I leisurely fired into the remaining group, now closer than I deemed safe. I found the rifle quite accurate, and easy to operate. Six headshots, and the threat was neutralized.
I then went to help Smenlo.
Smenlo struggled to keep from being bitten. He had not, of course, thought about being scratched, or otherwise having his flesh punctured by the thing. I came close, placed the barrel to the corpse’s ear at a slightly downward angle, and fired.
A silence of several seconds followed as the corporal realized that I had saved his life. I took the moment to examine his face. As I had hoped, there were several small wounds on his cheek, all covered in gore from the creature’s now absent head.
I extended my hand to lift the man up, accepting his muttered gratitude as he stood. The game was now afoot, to coin a phrase.
I directed Hassenfuss to take the ammunition into the building, as I grabbed the radio. I allowed Smenlo to satisfy his ego and carry the heavy articles inside. I took the opportunity to loosen the antennae connection, while observed, walking behind my guests.
We unloaded our burdens, and I made a spectacle of inspecting Smenlo’s wounds. I was very pleased to note that a fragment of tooth, and several of bone had imbedded themselves deep in the man’s cheek. I cleaned the wounds and removed the fragments, noting to myself that the experiment was now approximately twenty minutes underway.
Hassenfuss busied himself trying to the radio. He was too agitated to notice my simple sabotage. He mentioned this to his superior who interrupted my ministrations to check the device himself. To his credit, and my surprise, Smenlo noticed the antennae connection, and remedied it. My choice of test subjects was consequently reaffirmed.
A brief conversation took place, in which Smenlo introduced himself in military formalities (name, rank, unit) and banalities (phonetic alphabet authentication codes); he also mentioned the accident with the “Stryker”, and Private Hassenfuss. He did not, however, mention me, for which I was grateful. He regarded me as a tool to be utilized, which fit well with my plan.
The party at the other end informed him that “no extraction was possible at that time”, that the base had been moved closer to Washington, all aircraft were employed to that end, and if he could find a way there himself it would probably be the quickest solution.
Having stated that this was impossible at the present, Smenlo was instructed to contact the base the next day. With that, he signed off. He then made my task easier by reverting to type, and in a rage, throwing the radio against a wall.
Hassenfuss, already pale, began sweating. A flash of regret crossed the corporal’s face, quickly supplanted by a mask of authority.
“Hassenfuss, fix the radio. Doc, you got any tools?”
“Quite a few, actually. I’ll fetch them.”
I hypothesized that Smenlo had reached and had taken from him, or been entirely denied the rank of Sergeant, due to his inability to control his temper. That very lack of innate discipline would be a factor in my experiment.
I returned from the basement with the tools, and Hassenfuss went to work on the radio. Smenlo catalogued the weapons and ammunition. I prepared another meal.
As we ate I took note of Smenlo’s face. He was slightly pale, and the area around his bandages was reddening. By morning I estimated he would be quite ill.
The rest of the night passed uneventfully, and I awoke to make coffee at 4:00 AM. The soldiers slept on couches in the living room, surrounded by weapons.
Rather than risking any unpleasant reactions, I allowed the scent of coffee to awaken the men. Hassenfuss sat up, a little bleary-eyed, and accepted a cup. Smenlo however, simply pulled his covers tighter, and shivered in place. Phase two had begun.
Smenlo had a fever, revealed by the thermometer to be 103 degrees. The area around the bandage was darkening, and a faint odor of necrosis wafted from it, though I am certain only I noticed it. I began a regimen of acetaminophen, and antibiotics, not aggressively mind you, but to both test the effects, and maintain my charade as a caring man of medicine.
The medicines had only a minimal effect over the course of the day, as I had expected. Corporal Smenlo was positively obsequious in his gratitude. I played into this as much as I could, causing my “patient” to associate me now with mother, instead of father in his mind. I was certain that his father had been overbearing, perhaps physically abusive, while mother was caring, supplying a safe retreat from the demands of manhood. Smenlo was transparent, and a rather text-book case.
When his illness became too advanced to allow him to remain in the main living area, I transferred him to the basement. In his advancing delirium he was further comforted by the appearance of so many proper instruments of medicine. This reinforced my authority over him, and allowed me to place five point restraints on him with his consent.
The last use he made of his voice was to ask me to see to Private Hassenfuss’ welfare. I assured him I would do just that.
Leaving Smenlo to languish, unconscious under sedation, I ventured upstairs to begin a peripheral experiment with Private Hassenfuss. I brought with me a small pharmacopoeia for the task.
The boy sat on his couch, at what seemed to be the seated version of “attention”, a faint but palpable fear in his eyes. I informed him of his comrade’s plight, and that I expected him not to live out the day.
Hassenfuss would have dissolved into terror had he been a civilian. I was pleased the strength of character with which he clung to his training, allowing his emotions to exist in one portion of his mind, but not the part that controlled action. He requested Smenlo’s dog-tags be given him when the man died. I agreed I would do this.
He then returned to work on the radio, which seemed to be nearly fixed. I had to act quickly, and subtly, as I did not want the private to harbor any instinctual distrust towards me. I made coffee, and included in his cup a concoction of hypnotic and narcotic drugs. About the time he finished the radio he began to drift off. I arranged him comfortably on the couch, made some suggestions for pleasant topics of which to dream, and returned to my primary test subject.
Smenlo was, by this time, ready to shuffle off his coil. I took his vitals, and determined that I had not long to wait. I then began preparing the next step in my “clinical trial”.
I proceeded to modify a pacemaker I had appropriated from Johns Hopkins. I added to it components from a 500,000 volt stun baton, so as to increase the output. I also added two backup batteries to be utilized in sequence if the first should be drained in an inconvenient moment. The most important modification was the remote control receiver for the on/off signal transmitted by a garage door opening device the owner of the house had left in the basement.
When the EKG indicated the corporal’s demise I started a stopwatch. Switching off the now irrelevant heart monitor, I released the catch and folded the half of the gurney under the corpse’s torso upright. Undoing the head restrain, I allowed Smenlo’s head to loll forward.
Taking a Makita cordless drill I made two holes at the back of the skull, one on either side of the spine. Into these I inserted an electrode from the pacemaker. The bulk of the device I bolted onto the back of the head, being careful not to put any more holes than needed into the brain. Around the crown of the skull I fastened a neck immobilizing halo, onto which I bolted the soldier’s own Kevlar helmet, thus to protect the device.
Taking care to sterilize my hands after this task, I then sat down to wait. When the stopwatch showed one hour fifteen minutes the late Corporal Smenlo began to revive. His conversational skills were barely affected by his demise. He began making inarticulate noises, and struggling against his restraints. I was confident in my ability to immobilize a man, and was not concerned that the corpse would break free.
I must admit to a feeling of amusement when the corpse of my late guest became excited at my presence. It was a trifle ironic that he looked hungrily at me. Ah well, on with experiment.
“Okie Dokie, corporal. Let us adjust your manners.” I said to him as I activated the device. He stopped making his guttural vocalizations, and an expression of surprise replaced the dull longing of his initial waking.
“Can you understand me Corporal?” I asked.
He attempted to nod against the restraint. I loosened it, and asked again. Slowly, with great ponderousness of effort, the corpse nodded. I tested his understanding over the next hour, concluding that he could only grasp simple questions or commands, but had a definite sense of self. It wasn’t much of a change from his living self, save that he was much more pliable, and quite a bit more pleasant.
This portion of the experiment had gone more smoothly than anticipated, so I decided to add an aspect to it; it was time for positive reinforcement.
I went upstairs, saw that Private Hassenfuss was still sleeping, and began a mental list for my experiment with him.
I went to the refrigerator and removed the package from my visit to my late colleague, whose remarks had brought me to Baltimore. The night the “crisis” started I had been made wary of certain culinary delights, but saved these “hors d’oveurs” on a hunch.
Thus it was with the liver and sweet breads of a mediocre psychiatrist that I solidified my control over a dead US Army corporal. I needn’t provide the details of the process; it is similar to the training of dogs.
As for Private Hassenfuss, I had seen in him a spark of potential. Greatly in his favor, even in the grip of terror he never lapsed into rudeness. He also exhibited an intelligence that had never been encouraged. I sought a breakthrough with him, and began introducing him to classic literature, tailored to benefit his profession.
Keeping him under the influence of hypnotics, I had him read Machiavelli, Sun Tsu, Julius Caesar, Rommel, and Patton. I put in his hands the writings of George Washington, Napoleon, and the Duke of Wellington.
Despite a mild dyslexia (kept in check by the drugs; some cases are dependant on emotions) the private took very well to my curriculum. I believe in a few years he will be “officer material”, but his time with me will likely relegate him to lab rat status, or at least make him an object of suspicion for the duration of his career.
There was one further test I needed to perform with Corporal Smenlo: a trip outside. While his living comrade read, I brought Smenlo through the living room. Hassenfuss looked up briefly and returned to his studies. Smenlo stopped short and grumbled something. I asked if he recognized the private, and he affirmed that he did. I asked if he knew why, but he answered that he did not.
The wind was accommodating that day, and I scented some corpses in close proximity. I fired off a single round from the M16 I carried. This invited a crowd of seven of the undead. As soon as they were within 100 yards I sent Smenlo to do his job. He hesitated and reached the rifle, which I denied him. He looked baffled, and failed to move. A sharp shove in small of his back got him moving. I then stepped behind and locked the gate.
It seems his natural aggression was ingrained deeply enough that he was able to engage the others of his kind with no more instruction. The single greatest advantage he had was the fact that the other walking dead seemed not even to notice him. He got between them and I, and even as he brutally beat one of them it kept its eyes on me, making no move to defend itself.
It seems that Corporal Smenlo had studied the crueler forms of hand-to-hand fighting with some zeal; he broke arms, crushed windpipes, shattered knees (this caused him to lose balance, a fact that remained lost on him) and snapped necks with the vim and vigor a starving dog set loose among hens. It only took three broken necks for him to learn that was the only effective action.
I noted from this venture that Smenlo would be well suited to carry a club. On all subsequent journeys out of doors he has brandished a length of steel pipe, of which he is very fond. It is really rather charming in its way.
I have reasoned that the corporal is not, nor will he be, capable of higher functions, namely operating complicated machinery (vehicles, weapons, anything that produces flame). Also, that knives are not suitable to him (he has a digit missing from his left hand attesting to this) as he is less dexterous than a three year old, and far less foresighted.
Using the corporal to mount the machine gun to the ambulance, and carry heavy loads, I fit it out for a long journey. When done, as promised I gave one of Smenlo’s dog-tags to Hassenfuss. The other I bolted to the corpse’s helmet, in case he out “lived” his usefulness.
I drove the private to within sight of your base and let him out. He thanked me pleasantly for all I had done, and made his way back. His medication should have worn off within a few hours.
Enclosed you will find schematics of the device implanted on Smenlo’s corpse. It may prove useful.
Also, exact dosages for the training provided Private Hassenfuss. I suspect however, that officer training may have been somewhat curtailed due to the current state of the world.
A question or two may arise: why would I help the young private? Answer: I am a psychiatrist. How much does what have done inform what we will do?
As to my customary diet, my favorite treats are no longer safe, so until satisfactory resolution of the crisis, I will be keeping a more traditional larder. Besides, manners have greatly improved: people seem to have finally admitted what I have long thought them to be. Such honesty is indeed refreshing.
I will keep the weapons that arrived with the soldiers. They will prove most useful.
I have one request: that a note be passed (enclosed) to Special Agent Clarice Starling. If anyone has survived I am certain she is one of them.
Please be advised that I will not be receiving guests any time soon, so do refrain from calling on me.
I thank you kindly for the weapons, and experimental materials, and will pass his Nation’s regards to Corporal Jake Smenlo (Deceased).
Warmest regards,
Hannibal Lecter (MD)
