Dread — a Battlefield Z short story
REMEMBER
The city lies abandoned, a graveyard of memories.
Streets once teeming with life, now haunted by the walking dead.
A plague, a relentless tide of hunger and decay.
I move silently, every step measured, heart pounding in my chest like a war drum.
My goal is simple: survival.
Supplies are my lifeline, and I must scavenge without drawing their attention.
My boots kiss the pavement, each contact a cautious kiss to the earth.
Fingers trace the edges of shattered glass, a reminder of shattered lives.
The sun casts long shadows, and I stick to them like a phantom. Shadows hide my form, a ghost in the midst of the damned.
I pause, watching them in the distance, their movements erratic, unpredictable.
Grotesque marionettes, dancing to the tune of their insatiable hunger.
Zombies.
A convenience store stands before me, a potential treasure trove. My fingers curl around the cold metal of a pipe — my improvised weapon.
I slide through the shattered entrance, the sound of glass fragments a discordant symphony.
The air inside is musty, the stench of death lingering like a vulture’s promise.
My eyes scan the shelves, seeking sustenance in a world gone mad. Cans clink softly as I gather them, each metallic note a gamble with fate.
Then I see it — a glint of metal on the counter.
A blade.
My heart leaps; the pipe suddenly feels inadequate. I snatch the blade, its weight reassuring in my grip.
But was I alone?
Who left it on the counter?
More important, why?
The shadows inside the dark store seemed blacker as I glanced around.
Searching.
Was the owner of the blade still inside?
Watching?
Waiting for their chance to pounce.
Or worse.
Was the former owner now one of the undead, lurking in the dark, ready to lumber into me?
Sweat threatened to steal my vision and I swiped it with a dirt stained forearm.
But nothing jumped out.
Nothing loomed or leered or tried to gnaw at me.
Except the feeling of wondering.
A survivor must adapt, evolve.
A noise outside — a shuffle, a guttural moan.
They’re near.
My heart races, time becomes my enemy.
I rush to the back, eyes scanning for an escape route.
And there it is — a window, broken but navigable.
I climb onto a shelving unit, my body a whisper in the dim light.
A cacophony of undead symphony crescendos outside, their proximity a chilling reminder.
The window is within reach, a portal to freedom.
A sudden realization grips me — the window is barred with planks, a fortress against both life and death.
Panic flares, a fire in my veins.
I glance around, searching for a solution.
A discarded roll of duct tape lies on a nearby shelf.
My mind races; an idea is born in the crucible of desperation.
I tear a strip of tape, my fingers working swiftly despite the trembling that threatens to consume me.
The blade glints as I slice the tape into thin strips.
I affix them to the glass, creating a lattice of improvised hinges.
With a final strip, I reinforce the center, fashioning a makeshift hinge.
My heart pounds as I brace myself against the window.
Adrenaline courses through my veins, a symphony of urgency and fear.
The first push is hesitant, a test of the jury-rigged escape. It holds.
With a silent prayer to a world that no longer listens, I put my weight behind the window.
The glass budges, the hinges groaning in protest, but it holds long enough for me to squeeze through.
The world outside is a canvas of desolation, a chilling masterpiece painted in gray and red.
The undead swarm nearby, their grotesque forms a stark contrast to my heartbeat, the rhythm of life within me.
I slip away from the building, a shadow fleeing the light.
The pipe and blade are my companions, tools of survival in a city of death.
My footsteps echo in my ears, every sound amplified in the silence of this forsaken world.
A forgotten bicycle leans against a pole, a guardian of memories past.
Maybe owned by the same person who left the blade.
Most of the forms of transportation are gone by now anyway.
This addition of forgotten wheels means someone was here.
Before now.
But if they were still alive, they would have come back for it.
That is something about the zombie apocalypse.
It is the world’s greatest game of finders, keepers.
I mount it, the rusty joints protesting.
The pedal is a hesitant heartbeat, a reminder of a time when the world was a different place.
I pedal with purpose, my movements fluid, guided by a single thought: escape.
The wind whips against my face, a reminder of my humanity in a world that seeks to strip it away.
The road stretches before me, a ribbon of potential and danger.
My heart still races, the echoes of the city’s horrors lingering in my mind.
But I ride on, a survivor in a city of the damned, armed with nothing but determination and the will to live.
Ready to cut loose and tie one on?
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