'I Guess We'd Better Get Started'

"Week 4, day 4. The time to look for answers had begun. Shadow and I woke the others and we broke the night's fast. We needed to look for things or places that could be useful for finding a cure for the Zombie virus, or things that could create intelligent Zombies. Watcher had a good idea about the second portion.
He theorized that the reason Zombies don't maintain the intelligence of the person the used to be is because of those precious moments between death and becoming undead. When the body dies, the influx of oxygen to the brain stops. Without oxygen being carried to the brain, its cells begin to die. If someone were to be kept on a breathing apparatus as they died, keeping the body oxygenated, they might be able to salvage their brain power.
That is a definite possibility of how Private Peters was able to communicate while the other Zombies cannot. And to make that process a reality, all one would need to do is visit a hospital and find the equipment. Of course, you would need to know what you're looking for to begin with. But if the plan is to make yourself a member of the walking dead then you'd better know what you're doing.
As for the necessary equipment to finding a possible cure, the hospital would be the best bet as well for a starting location.
'There are three hospitals in this town,' said Phoenix, looking at his map. 'The closest one is about an hour and a half walk.'
'I guess we'd better get started then, shouldn't we?' I offered to the group.
Packing our gear and getting everything ready for travel, everyone seemed to get into their own little groups. Eagle and Phoenix were in the corner packing their gear and quickly cleaning their weapons. Watcher was behind the counter of our borrowed corner store, making sure his portable computer was charging nicely. He'd found a way to hook up at solar panel to the battery pack so that he could keep it running when he really needed it. Shadow and Viper were checking their equipment in front of the store window, making sure we weren't surprised by any unwanted - undead - guests. She had told me last night, before she went to bed, that she had wanted to talk to him again to tell Shadow it wasn't too late for him to turn back and head to the bunker.
Looking at them all, I stored the image deep in my mind. It looked like a perfect moment of peace among friends mixed with the unnatural aura of readiness for death that war brings. Every moment might be the last that I see them relatively happy.
Viper looked over and made eye contact with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She looked down to my elbow quickly and looked away. Looking down I realized that I'd been scratching my wound. Taking conscious control of my arms, I lowered them to my sides and began tending to my own gear.
Going through my weapons and rations with the systematic process I'd developed as the war against the undead had carried on. Rolling up and packing my small blanket, storing my rations, carefully checking to make sure the medical supplies I had taken with me were still safely intact. Strapping on my belt with it's holsters and ammunition slots, picking up my magnums, checking that the safety was engaged. Releasing the ammunition cylinder and counting the six bullets loaded inside, I snapped the cylinder back into place and slid the two guns into their holsters. Picking up my battle rifle, checking the safety, ejecting the magazine inside to see that it had a full clip ready and waiting, sliding it back into place, and slinging the weapon to my back. Checking, re-sheathing and strapping on my two katanas to my belt as well.
Finally, I picked up my battle scythe. I ran my hand along the smooth, lacquered shaft and along the face of the cold, metal blade. The most symbolic of my weapons. The only one I'd ever taken a true interest in keeping clean because I wanted to, not just because I knew I had to. Reaching into a side pocket of my pack, I drew out a clean rag and set about cleaning the scythe as best I could. Spotting a patch of dirt, dabbing the cloth on my tongue and wiping the blade until it shone. Grimacing over the little scratches on the blade. It's true that skulls are the hardest bone in the body. After the fusion of the different sections as an infant, it becomes a true safety barrier for one of the most valuable things in the human body. But after the body dies, it's skin tissue and bones start to erode and decay. It makes it easy for a well aimed blade to slice through almost any part of the body. But sometimes it's not an old decayed body you're slicing through.
'I am the Reaper,' I whispered to myself, slowly running my fingers over the blade again. I bring hope to the living. I bring death to the undead. I am one of the former, becoming one of the latter...
As the sharpened edge of the blade parted the skin on the face of my thumb it brought me out of my reverie. Looking around the room, I noticed that everyone had finished their packing and were looking at me with mixed looks of concern, sadness, and undying loyalty. Clearing my throat softly, I used a cloth from my bag to wipe the blood off of my scythe and used the clean cloth I had earlier to polish the blade quickly. Storing the clean cloth back in its side pocket, hitching the pack on to my back and sheathing my scythe, I turned to the others.
Smiling softly to my friends and family, I led us out of the store. And we set out to the first hospital. Reaching across my body to scratch my elbow, I steeled myself for the day."

Excerpt from the battle log of Steven A. Carpenter. Code Named: Reaper.