“..And when the gates of hell are cast wide open, and the souls of the wicked find their way into the mortal realm, so too will the dead walk the Earth, the sound of their wailful moans and gnashing of teeth heard throughout the land. And in their endless reckoning the world over, so too will the dead then feed upon the living, sated nourishment drawn from meat and sinew. Flesh, bone, fetter and rot. The shambling cadavers shall never rest until in death they may find eternal peace. In light of this fact, a trial is soon set for those still living in this world. A trial by which survival remains key, the challenge a long and enduring one to span the remainder of ones admittedly short life. To live and survive long enough to see the day that life may finally prevail over the likes of the undead, lest the world succumb to widespread desolation in death and decay. Lest we forget..then we be damned, our existence proven nil and vain. God bless all ye who come to pass, so we may better repent for our sins... ”
The old mans words ran through the pandas mind on and off as he set forth to venture into the city streets, jet black ashen gray asphalt leading him between those wayward buildings. It was strange, that which he had said like a sermon, his words heard in passing glance by the camp fires at the mouth of the cave the night before, where he had slept the night. What had begun as a crisis had quickly evolved into a cataclysmic event of biblical proportions..and it wouldn't have surprised him any if the entire world now teetered on the brink of collapse with the walking dead. Mounting cynicism would dictate that rather than be so supernatural in nature, this widespread event was a phenomena borne from the depths of science in creating such aberrations. It wasn't as if he possessed a profound understanding in biological theory to support such a notion, either way.. For all he could tell, a team of scientists had unleashed the “New Plague” unto the world as part of a prophecy set forth by a Doomsday Cult. Better to kill those who remained for the next life in the hereafter than languish and fester in this one. Sick bastards..
What was worse were his “fellow” survivors that continued to exist in the shadow of the old world, here and now. As social unrest had become predominant in the past year, so too did the Governments presence and the more established social order begin to falter and wane, until anarchy had become the new norm throughout those cities and the vast country side. Rule lay on an individual or group basis, with every persons well-being and safety enacted on their own accord rather than by the hands of another. From there, one was allowed to bear witness to the crueler aspects of a persons psyche, as survivors turned on their fellow survivors to better survive in such an inhospitable world. People were hacked to pieces for little more than a can of beans, a crate of rotten fruit, even for what clothes or gear that they had managed to scavenge through their time in the wilds. What one could bring with them on their back was all they took with them, scavenging town after town, city after city, eking out a miserable existence by their lonesome.
That had been Tujoma Musaki's existence for the past few months. Having “reclaimed” some gear from a military checkpoint that had either been abandoned or overrun, he'd been more or less decked out as far as equipment went. The militaristic look of the assault vest and kevlar helmet clashed a bit with the casual look of clothing in the hoodie and cargo pants he wore, but afforded him a modicum of protection and practical weight-distribution in the worldly possessions adorning his form. Namely, there was the assault rifle he had found by nothing short of a miracle, with two full magazines to spare. Even being well armed, however, meant little in the face of the endless hordes of the walking dead. One bullet could potentially mean one kill, but only if his aim were true and under near perfect circumstances. No, the rifle was a deterrent and a measure gainst “fellow” survivors. As sad as it was to admit, they were the bigger threat between the undead and the living to -his- survival. Bullets were precious, but not precious enough to guarantee one not getting shot in this brave new world. The little “nick” on his helmet was an ever present reminder of this, something sustained during his travels through the western forest. Team work and cooperation were concepts as dead as the walking cadavers that infested the new world, with loners a dime a dozen between the thickest copses of trees and in the dense network of asphalt and concrete of the urban jungle.
Which brought him to this slice of urban sprawl. The sign read Levales, from what he could see.. A series of suburban looking neighborhoods surrounding what transitioned into a city towards the center, complete with burgeoning sky scrapers that towered high above the city streets, lined by rows upon rows of town homes at either side. Scavenging had been hard enough the past month; much of the fresh food that hadn't already been scavenged from grocery stores or super markets had likely gone rotten by this point, reducing ones options to packaged or canned food. Unless one turned to harvesting the land for natural bounties, the options were more or less for preserved food..or turning to the local wild life in hunting. Any option one took was a dangerous one, however..and his desperation turned him to venturing rather casually into the city scape. It was a little eerie, being so quiet that he could hear a fell wind blow through.. the gentle creaking of house shutters audibly discernible at several blocks distance. Looked like it had been picked clean by and large, doors and windows thrown open along either side of the street.. For the first time, he'd made the fatal error of losing himself in thought, just as errant thoughts and reflections entered and left his mind...until a raspy moan broke such reflections, said moan suddenly joined by several shrieks and guttural screeching calling out in a disjointed chorus of the dead.
Weaving in and out of the debris fields that lined the streets, several of the undead seemed to emerge from beyond the standing structures at either side, entering the pandas field of vision from the corner of one eye. It didn't take but a few seconds time for Tujoma to break into a sudden run, turning tail to lunge his body forth in a speedy dash, heavy foot-falls treading earth as hiking boots moved forth with each passing step. It didn't take long for his breaths to turn rough and haggard as his already beleaguered form began to slow and buckle. The straps of his back-pack and assault vest began to dig into his shoulders as the combined weight of his gear became that much more of a burden, a feverish glance cast backwards to the sight of at least five chasing after him. A momentary lapse in judgment took hold as he'd looked over his shoulder for just a little longer than he should have...only to find himself skidding to a halt as several zombies surrounded him at the front by the time he'd looked up.
“Geezus..!” He'd call aloud as they descended upon him like a pack of wolves. A wide wave of the rifle as the staccato sound of burst-fire broke the “silence” around him, plumes of blackish ichor spurting from the bodies of the dead, their rotting bodies spasming momentarily before resuming their attack. Reaching out with blood-caked fingers, the panda could feel them begin to take hold and attack him with their unholy fervor, the rancorously loud screeches and shrieking filled the air as they lunged out at him. In that very moment, his entire body froze, unable to fully act as rotting fingers set upon his clothes and equipment. Tugging at the straps of his vest and pack, gripping into his clothing, ripping the fabric and material in their iron-lock grasp. Blood began to stain deep into what attire covered the length of the pandas form, just before he'd vigorously begin to shake himself free of the horde of rotting cadavers.. but as their numbers quickly swelled in the passing moments, any hope of escape quickly began to vanish as they all began to set upon him..
Commentary: Loosely inspired by my experiences throughout both versions of Day Z (Arma 2 mod to the alpha release of Standalone.) While the zombies in standalone aren't nearly as “lethal” as the ones in the mod, they are slowly catching up as far as raw killing power is concerned. As for other survivors.. The Day Z community as a whole has transitioned from about a 50-50 mix of “neutral survivors” to bandits, with variations between the two commonplace from server to server. Now, on both the mod and standalone, people are more apt to kill / extort / haze / threaten you as they take notice of your menial existence, with banditry having risen to what I would presume to be about 95%, if not more. Though, I do remember a time when a group of complete strangers could come together after saying “I'm friendly” to one another, forming a tight-knit and reliable group of survivors to persevere in post apocalyptic Chernarus. As of the present day, the only people you trust are those willing to talk to you, and not stick a shiv in your back in the first five minutes of contact. Be careful out there.. there be all sorts of terrible people on Day Z, but occasionally, you'll find a hero among the masses...
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10 years, 12 months ago
15 Apr 2014 06:16 CEST
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