20 months. About 600 days has passed since the day of the first infection: Day Z. The day that human kind received a grim reminder. A reminder that reminded them of their sins, a reminder from beyond the grave.
I was there when it happened. The dead swarmed Chicago, took my parents and sister, poor girl was only 9 when it happened. I ran, I ran as far as I could with my supplies and my pistol. I stopped midway after leaving Illinois, trying to contact my friends in the precinct, couldn't find any of them. Figuring that they probably died trying to hold off the zombies, I kept moving. I've seen my fair share of zombie movies, and I know that moving is probably the best way to survive, at least for now. I moved from city to city, travelling from state to state, barely surviving.
2 months after the outbreak, the government set up a small sanctuary for us survivors located in the outskirts of Washington DC, called it "Paradise". Took me another month to reach DC, trying to integrate into the peaceful life. It wasn't much, but it was a hell lot better than the hell on earth outside it.
Making new friends was quite easy. Everybody needed someone they could rely on, a shoulder to cry on when they grieved. The problem was maintaining that friendship. After they finished grieving, everyone grows independent, and everyone seems to think that friends and companions are nothing but dead weight, isolating themselves from one another. A lot of people died like that: lonely, bitter and full of regrets. I found some friends along the way, some trusty, some.... not so much. We kept each other company, talking about our pre-zombie apocalypse times like it was heaven. We hunt, scavenge and sell whatever we can spare to make a living. Even in this post-apocalyptic world, money still beats everything.
"Mark, we're leaving in 5, we're raiding the Memorial today," it was John, the first person I met who actually wanted friends instead of leeching resources from everyone.I met him and Anna shortly after I came to Paradise, became friends pretty quickly. John was training to join the Military Police and Anna was a CIA agent. Being law enforcement officers, we communicated well and survived. Just the three of us against the world, I always thought.
We walked cautiously along the path towards the memorial, raiding everything we saw, from dead survivors to stores along the way. We found people hiding behind crates, counters and in store rooms, clinging onto that last bit of sanity they have as isolation and fear slowly drives them insane. We debated, whether to save them so they can join our cause, kill them so the suffering could end, or just leave them be. It was hard, but we had to kill them, they begged us to end the suffering for them. We walked into yet another store room of an abandoned shop, finding familiar faces. Lying in the corner was Carl, biting onto a piece of cloth as Boris, the military medic treated his stab wound.
Carl saw us and gasped. Boris calmly explained to us in his thick Russian accent, "We were out hunting, but then this... this man rushed out from nowhere and stabbed Carl in the arm and took our supplies away. I shot him, I had to. He wasn't turned, but he was mad, bestial even. Not a hint of humanity was in him anymore, I could see the madness in his eyes. I had to treat him before the wound got worse, but the walk back is too far away, we had to make do with this."
After a lengthy discussion, Anna decided to give Boris her combat knife and John gave Carl his spare Glock. We moved along after Boris bandaged Carl, trying to salvage as much as we can.
We walked out of the store, covering each other. As we walked by the giant Honest Abe, a decomposing hand reached out behind the pillar, grabbing Anna's ponytail. Not wasting any time, I chopped off the arm as Carl finished off the zombie. Anna grunted in dissatisfaction as she pulled the decaying hand off her hair. We paid even closer attention to the pavement as we walked until we saw the supply crate among a helicopter wreckage, rumored to hold an ample supply of munition and food.
Anna turned to me, "Cover me, I'll grab the supplies," I nodded as the four of us got into position to defend Anna as she looted the crate. We defended against the zombies, shots were fired and heads rolled in the chaotic scene. I heard a scream, only to see Boris falling towards the ground, blood gushing out of a gunshot wound to his back. I barely had any time to react as I felt a sharp pain from my right leg. I fell, turning around just in time to see Anna with her pistol trained on Carl's legs. She shot both his legs as I yelled. Carl fell to the ground limply as he grunted, dropping his gun. John widened his eyes from shock before he ran at Anna, knife raised. Anna shot his shoulder, the knife falling from his hand as he yelled in pain. Anna turned towards me as John picked up his blade and ran, looking at me one last time, as if he was apologizing, and ran, evading the extending hands of the dead.
"I wish it didn't have to come to this," She said, not a hint of regret in her voice.
Carl screamed again, but it slowly turned into a whimper as the zombies devoured him. They closed in on me as Anna backed away. They grabbed onto my limp body and sunk their teeth into my flesh, ripping my body apart. I screamed, because of both the pain and the hatred. I silently cursed as I looked her right in the eye,those ruthless, cold, blue eyes.
Anna ran. She shot her way through the swarm. arriving at a deserted house to rest before they caught up. She felt a sharp pain coming from her shoulder, examining the wound, she cursed. On her shoulder was a bite mark, knowing that she was infected, she wanted to fight them out. She heard them getting closer, and she was prepared to die, just not like this. She took a deep breath, her gun on her temple. She exhaled as she fired. Once. Twice. Nothing happened. She swore, realizing that she spent all her ammo. She instinctively reached for her knife before remembering that she gave it to Boris. Looking around the house, she could find nothing that can end her life in a swift, rather painless way. She sat on the floor, accepting her fate as the zombies shuffled closer. A hand bursted through the door, closing in on her throat. She screamed in fear.
"I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry..." John muttered as he stumbled along the silent, deserted road. In front of him was a horde of undead. He let go of his wounded arm and raised his blade; he felt the guilt, the guilt of letting his friend die because he wasn't brave enough. He didn't want to suffer anymore. He yelled at the zombies, charging towards them, to avenge his friend; to end his suffering.
I was there when it happened. The dead swarmed Chicago, took my parents and sister, poor girl was only 9 when it happened. I ran, I ran as far as I could with my supplies and my pistol. I stopped midway after leaving Illinois, trying to contact my friends in the precinct, couldn't find any of them. Figuring that they probably died trying to hold off the zombies, I kept moving. I've seen my fair share of zombie movies, and I know that moving is probably the best way to survive, at least for now. I moved from city to city, travelling from state to state, barely surviving.
2 months after the outbreak, the government set up a small sanctuary for us survivors located in the outskirts of Washington DC, called it "Paradise". Took me another month to reach DC, trying to integrate into the peaceful life. It wasn't much, but it was a hell lot better than the hell on earth outside it.
Making new friends was quite easy. Everybody needed someone they could rely on, a shoulder to cry on when they grieved. The problem was maintaining that friendship. After they finished grieving, everyone grows independent, and everyone seems to think that friends and companions are nothing but dead weight, isolating themselves from one another. A lot of people died like that: lonely, bitter and full of regrets. I found some friends along the way, some trusty, some.... not so much. We kept each other company, talking about our pre-zombie apocalypse times like it was heaven. We hunt, scavenge and sell whatever we can spare to make a living. Even in this post-apocalyptic world, money still beats everything.
"Mark, we're leaving in 5, we're raiding the Memorial today," it was John, the first person I met who actually wanted friends instead of leeching resources from everyone.I met him and Anna shortly after I came to Paradise, became friends pretty quickly. John was training to join the Military Police and Anna was a CIA agent. Being law enforcement officers, we communicated well and survived. Just the three of us against the world, I always thought.
We walked cautiously along the path towards the memorial, raiding everything we saw, from dead survivors to stores along the way. We found people hiding behind crates, counters and in store rooms, clinging onto that last bit of sanity they have as isolation and fear slowly drives them insane. We debated, whether to save them so they can join our cause, kill them so the suffering could end, or just leave them be. It was hard, but we had to kill them, they begged us to end the suffering for them. We walked into yet another store room of an abandoned shop, finding familiar faces. Lying in the corner was Carl, biting onto a piece of cloth as Boris, the military medic treated his stab wound.
Carl saw us and gasped. Boris calmly explained to us in his thick Russian accent, "We were out hunting, but then this... this man rushed out from nowhere and stabbed Carl in the arm and took our supplies away. I shot him, I had to. He wasn't turned, but he was mad, bestial even. Not a hint of humanity was in him anymore, I could see the madness in his eyes. I had to treat him before the wound got worse, but the walk back is too far away, we had to make do with this."
After a lengthy discussion, Anna decided to give Boris her combat knife and John gave Carl his spare Glock. We moved along after Boris bandaged Carl, trying to salvage as much as we can.
We walked out of the store, covering each other. As we walked by the giant Honest Abe, a decomposing hand reached out behind the pillar, grabbing Anna's ponytail. Not wasting any time, I chopped off the arm as Carl finished off the zombie. Anna grunted in dissatisfaction as she pulled the decaying hand off her hair. We paid even closer attention to the pavement as we walked until we saw the supply crate among a helicopter wreckage, rumored to hold an ample supply of munition and food.
Anna turned to me, "Cover me, I'll grab the supplies," I nodded as the four of us got into position to defend Anna as she looted the crate. We defended against the zombies, shots were fired and heads rolled in the chaotic scene. I heard a scream, only to see Boris falling towards the ground, blood gushing out of a gunshot wound to his back. I barely had any time to react as I felt a sharp pain from my right leg. I fell, turning around just in time to see Anna with her pistol trained on Carl's legs. She shot both his legs as I yelled. Carl fell to the ground limply as he grunted, dropping his gun. John widened his eyes from shock before he ran at Anna, knife raised. Anna shot his shoulder, the knife falling from his hand as he yelled in pain. Anna turned towards me as John picked up his blade and ran, looking at me one last time, as if he was apologizing, and ran, evading the extending hands of the dead.
"I wish it didn't have to come to this," She said, not a hint of regret in her voice.
Carl screamed again, but it slowly turned into a whimper as the zombies devoured him. They closed in on me as Anna backed away. They grabbed onto my limp body and sunk their teeth into my flesh, ripping my body apart. I screamed, because of both the pain and the hatred. I silently cursed as I looked her right in the eye,those ruthless, cold, blue eyes.
Anna ran. She shot her way through the swarm. arriving at a deserted house to rest before they caught up. She felt a sharp pain coming from her shoulder, examining the wound, she cursed. On her shoulder was a bite mark, knowing that she was infected, she wanted to fight them out. She heard them getting closer, and she was prepared to die, just not like this. She took a deep breath, her gun on her temple. She exhaled as she fired. Once. Twice. Nothing happened. She swore, realizing that she spent all her ammo. She instinctively reached for her knife before remembering that she gave it to Boris. Looking around the house, she could find nothing that can end her life in a swift, rather painless way. She sat on the floor, accepting her fate as the zombies shuffled closer. A hand bursted through the door, closing in on her throat. She screamed in fear.
"I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry..." John muttered as he stumbled along the silent, deserted road. In front of him was a horde of undead. He let go of his wounded arm and raised his blade; he felt the guilt, the guilt of letting his friend die because he wasn't brave enough. He didn't want to suffer anymore. He yelled at the zombies, charging towards them, to avenge his friend; to end his suffering.
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