Dead DayZ

You awaken in the apartment bedroom, news blaring on the television and the sound of a helicopter soaring outside. You stayed up way too late and don't remember all of the details but flashes of moments: drinking whiskey, chaos in the streets, your sister packing suitcases, and police cars lining up along the major avenues like makeshift border crossings.

You glance around the apartment hoping to see Jasmine. Your eyes adjust to the light, but the Jameson whiskey's hangover is a sharp kick to the back of the head. Your mouth tastes like mud and the rollercoaster ride your bed is taking is out of control.

You are staying with Jasmine in her highrise apartment. A responsible woman, she works as a nurse at a nearby children's hospital and recently left a long-term relationship (her choice). On the other hand, she is also quite a free spirit and often takes to random acts of dancing in inappropriate places, dragging you to karaoke night at the Broken Horn Tavern down the street, and hosting a few too many parties lately that end in a multitude of empty liquor bottles and evidence of other mood-altering substances. You grew up together, never apart since your parents both died when you were young, and the aunt who took custody was never a parental figure. You raised Jasmine, and she is your family.

You have spent years training as a Special Forces soldier and left to start a private security firm. You have an impressive collection of clients and find satisfaction in taking tons of their money for things you used to get squat to do. You enjoy long walks on the desert beach, heavy metal guns, and planning weekend getaways for hostage rescues. You are adept at small arms, heavy weapons, demolitions, hand-to-hand combat, and surviving in places most people would turn from in a National Geographic photograph.

The unrest in the world fueled your passion for writing, and you started a successful political-discussion blog. For months, you posted articles on political turmoil and the global economic decay. In the past month as underground whispers of the Zeta virus spread, you were one of the first blogs to question the government's outbreak plan and motives to contain information on the deadly virus. Your blog's readership grew and reached over 100,000 daily readers.

You awaken in the apartment. A bottle of aspirin lies on its side with the contents spilled. You happen to see a note on the desk with your name on it. The letter is addressed to Alexander The note reads:

Alexander,

Sorry for not being here when you woke up. I am heading out to get some things before we leave. You were sick, so I didn't wake you, but the city is getting worse, and we need to get out. Be ready when I'm back!

Jasmine

You awaken to a heavy nauseous feeling in your gut. The clock reads 8:03 pm. Jasmine has not been home in hours. You plop down on the living room couch and flip on the television where a middle-aged anchorman reports.

"The CDC via the White House has just announced over 20% of the world is infected with Virus Zeta. Reports are coming in from around the globe of a massive spread of this terrible infection that attacks the brain and nervous system, quickly disabling the victim and in effect re-animating the body of the afflicted. Moments ago, we heard from Dr. Anthony Willis who has treated the infected and stated they show deterioration of the bone and muscles, a yellowing of the skin, lack of fine motor abilities described as a drunken walk, and inability to speak."

Dr. Willis goes on to explain the virus affects primitive areas of the brain and acts as a parasite which rewires the nervous system of the host to take over functions of the body. Infected become aggressive, attempting to bite or otherwise injure others and pass on the virus.

"This just in—Governor Tate has declared a state of emergency, and the National Guard have come in to keep peace in the streets and enforce a mandatory curfew of 9pm."

You peer outside the apartment and from seven stories up notice crowds of people formed outside. Sirens blare as police vans and cruisers skirt up and down streets, and news helicopters swarm overhead. You remember now—the infection. It was only a few days ago you first heard of the outbreak. Jasmine mentioned reports at the hospital were of a fatal, highly contagious virus spreading like a forest fire if the forest was doused with gasoline.

The lights flicker, and the television set dims and cuts off. Light streams in through the apartment windows, casting a golden glow through the air which fades in the recesses of the room. You hear movement in the hallway outside of the apartment and rush to the door. All is silent. You wait and listen, pressing your ear to the hard wood surface. Silence.

You move back to the television and flip the power on and off. Nothing. The dim ambient light from outside coats the room. Time creeps by as you consider your next move.

A sharp scratching noise seeps through the ceiling, once then twice, metal scraping cement. You spin in a full circle; the sound comes from the floor above. The scratching builds into harsh screeches, like a fork digging deeper and deeper into a Styrofoam plate. The sound intensifies for several minutes and then ceases. The television pops back on. Pictures of infected running through cities across the globe cover the screen. Police and military attempt to subdue the creatures, now called zombies by the media. An announcer describes the macabre truth that infections are spreading rapidly and cautions viewers to stay indoors at all costs.

From overhead, you hear a loud thump and a crash of broken glass. An explosion of footsteps rings from the hallway, and several screams cut the air. You think of Jasmine out in the city. If zombies are running rampant through the streets, uncontrolled by the police, what chance does she have? You need to reach her. There is no landline, and your cell phone is missing. She could be on her way back, but you have no way of reaching her from the apartment. Then again, there's nothing keeping you here.

You change into jeans and a t-shirt and grab a quick sandwich and glass of water. After eating, you realize a few items may come in handy should you need to leave or your situation in the relative comfort of the apartment changes. You grab a few bottles of water and some food along with a first aid kit, clothes and put it all in a backpack.You can't beat the stopping power of a shotgun, and even a zombie will think twice when you pump a slug in the chamber. You take a shotgun from inside a closet and grab a box of shells. What the hell is your sister doing with a shotgun anyway? You head into the hallway. Someone will let you use their phone to call Jasmine. There have to be others still in the building, behind locked doors. Finding your sister is your only priority.

The lights flicker and cast an eerie glow all around. Power fluctuates off and on. It's silent again—way too silent. You knock at the door but notice it is ajar. No light escapes the small opening. Static from a television or radio permeates the air. This is Arthur Connor's apartment—an antiques dealer who usually keeps his shop open late in the evening. Your sister mentioned him a few times, mostly to tell you to avoid him at all costs. Arthur is quite old—probably late 70s—and on the one occasion you did meet him, about as friendly as a starving hyena. He won't take too kindly to your being in his apartment without permission. You enter anyway, rules change when it's the Apocalypse.You ease the door open and step inside. Helicopters outside thrust light through the blinds, creating a striped pattern across the wall of the apartment.

You check the bedroom and find a well-kept room in perfect order, a closet full of old clothes pressed and hanging or folded in neat piles, a large steamer trunk with photos turned gray and brown from aging, a scrapbook, and a box with a top hat. A large oak dresser stretches across the northern wall. You hit pay-dirt as the bottom drawer has a Smith and Wesson Model 10 in a case with a box of .38 caliber ammunition. You take the gun and ammo and return to the living room.

You stand in the living room atop an oriental rug stretched across a hardwood floor. Victorian-style couches and a love seat are arranged in the center of the room, with a Victrola on a pedestal next to them. You glance at the old music player, with its large funnel-shaped horn and hand crank that spins the record, considering how it was made in such a simpler, less-zombie-filled time. Impressionist art hangs from the walls, and statues of Aphrodite and Apollo stand guard on either side of the apartment's lone exit.

You perform a more thorough search of the living room and find no phone. You step into the kitchen and spot a radio on a counter next to a coffee maker. Static fills the area, so you turn off the radio. The white noise dies out and is replaced by the sounds of scraping, similar to what you heard in your apartment. You spin around, look up, and put your hand on the revolver, readying yourself for whatever is making the noise. It slides from one end of the room to the other, crossing the walls behind overhead cabinets. You search through each one, anxiously waiting for something to leap out. You find nothing but soup cans, old dried pasta, and glass jars of herbs. In the last cupboard, you open up a can of coffee and find a roll of money inside.You put the money back in the coffee can, place it in the cupboard, and head out of the kitchen. Having checked out all of Connor's apartment, you walk back into the hallway. You think it’s best to try another apartment

You knock on the door and receive no response after several minutes and hear nothing from inside. You check the doorknob; it is unlocked. You sigh and enter the apartment.

Hanging in the middle of the room is a short, thin man -- his neck tilted to the right by a rope around his neck. Dangling in the room with an expressionless face, he appears as a puppet on a string. Dressed in a navy blue business suit, he is pale white with blue lips and thick, sagging purplish skin under his eyes. A slight swaying from side-to-side is his only movement. A makeshift noose leads from his neck to a ceiling fan, and a stool lies on its side a few feet from the man. His apartment is well furnished with a wide screen TV hanging on the wall, leather couches, modern art, and a full bar setup on the far right side of the room.

You do a quick scan of the area but see no phone. There may be a cell phone on him but that means searching his dead body.

You move over to the hanging businessman and stop his body from swinging. You check his pants pockets and find them completely empty, then look through his coat and remove a folded piece of paper and a checkbook. The note is a handwritten message, which reads:

To Whoever finds me, I am sorry I couldn't handle this life anymore but this infection is spreading and soon we will all be food for the zombies. I cannot stand the thought of living in such a world, constantly struggling and fighting for my survival. I tried to call my mother and father but the networks are down.

If you found me, please get in touch with my parents, Arthur and Gene Dobson. I have written a check for $25,000 in my pocket and offer it to you to find them and tell them I am sorry.

Thomas

You look up from the note and spot the body twitching. You fall backward, knocking over an end table which hits the ground with a hard thump. Thomas' eyes open, and he thrashes about, slowly at first, then intensifying to an almost convulsive state. His skin has yellowed, and greenish lesions have formed over all parts of his visible skin. He struggles in mid-air, flailing his arms about but unable to reach you. Slender, hooked fingers claw the air. Blood-stained eyes track your movements.

While he seems securely stuck to the ceiling, you are not sure how long it will take for the cord or ceiling fan to give way, so you back into the hallway, closing the door behind you.

You realize that staying upstairs is a waste of time, and if you want to find Jasmine and get out of the city, you'll have to make your way downstairs.