It was just before dawn and a grey mist lingered between the houses. Visibility remained good however as every so often the clouds would part, allowing what remained of the night’s moon to shine down and reflect off the moist cobblestone.
I hunched up against the rain and walked on, following my usual route through the winding streets and down towards the main gate. I arrived at a checkpoint that separated the main streets from a large military-turned-refugee camp. A tall man dressed in tattered army gear pointed his flashlight at me as I approached before holding his hand out to stop me.
I knew this ex-soldier. He was one of only a handful of men who stayed behind after the rest of the military moved on to continue the massive building operation that saw many of the largest cities around the world split into living areas or ‘zones’ which were then walled off by huge perimeter walls leaving the center of the city as a quarantine area.
I was born around eight years after the last chemical strike brought the world to its knees by unleashing a deadly toxin that turned all who received it into mindless corpses, and so did not witness the terrible early days or the building of our zone. That left me to rely on stories told by the older survivors in the community, of which this man was one.
I stopped and looked up expecting some form of conversation but instead, he just handed me a folded-up piece of paper, nodded, and sent me on my way. I walked between the sandbags and stopped to read, shielding the paper from the rain;
“More bandits have been spotted watching the walls these past few days, so be careful sending any of your runners out there until we can figure out what they are up to. Might be worth posting extra men on the watch, especially at night”
Then, added in a scribble at the bottom of the page; “Too many refugees. No water. Send Ghost”
I looked up at the long line of tents on the other side of the street, then back again at the soldier. He just stared at me before nodding again and turning away. I set off, tucking the note into my pack. I shivered as my mind focused on one thing.
Bandits.
Bandits were often dangerous refugees who failed to abide by the rules of society. They were subsequently cut free from the safety of the walls and cast out to make it on their own. It is human nature to survive, however, and those who were cast out would find others before arming themselves and traveling in groups.
This situation finally got out of control during the uprising, in which a large gathering of bandits tried to take control of another zone in this city, one where I was living with my family at the time.
With the military all but gone the bandit force seized the opportunity and broke through the main gates just as a runner was returning from a scavenging mission. I remember the fire and shouting, the screaming even, as people were slaughtered while those who could fight tried to rouse a defense. I remember running through the resulting mayhem, the blood soaking the streets beneath my feet as bullets whizzed past me, some hitting brick and exploding it into dust while others ripped with a dull thud into flesh. Bodies dropped in my peripheral vision as I ran.
Though the bandits thought their victory was assured, it was the dead who would triumph that day. They swarmed into the zone midway through the attack having been attracted by the noise. They fell upon refugees and bandits both, ripping into them with their jagged teeth and adding their reanimated bodies to the legions of dead that chased those retreating from the fight.
This last part had to be told to me in the years after by the very few survivors of that battle because by the time the dead arrived I was nowhere to be found. I had run out into the central quarantine area.
I spent the best part of a year scared and alone out there, dodging bandit groups and the hordes of corpses while surviving on whatever I could find in the ruins.
I was taken into my current zone as winter rolled over the city. I was found lying in the road sick, freezing and on the edge of death by a runner named Black. He fed me and gave me something to drink before he escorted me back to this very refugee camp.
He was a good man, an ex-soldier from before the outbreak who had volunteered to be drafted back into the military and help out struggling communities like our own.
He taught me everything about being a runner, how to scavenge effectively, how to divide supplies among the needy and the greedy and which areas to stay away from as well as useful techniques I should use should I ever find myself having to fight the dead. I was selected to replace him as the zone runner after his disappearance a few years ago.
I arrived at the big main gate and rested for a few minutes, checking my pack and resting my hand on the knife at my waist. I waited a while longer to see if the weather would relent but the cold rain just kept falling. With one last look back and a wave from the guard, I swung open a hatch and stepped out onto the windy streets of the quarantine area.
I waited until I heard the bolt slide back into place on the other side before dropping into a squat-run and moving over into the shadows. I took out the note and scanned its contents. This was going to be a difficult run as the only source of water even close to our side of the city was a pump in the square outside city hall. This was a well-known and highly dangerous area, one which most runners made a point of avoiding.
A large group of bandits had taken control of it in the years after I was born and had been there ever since. They were known to set up ambushes with snipers on the rooftops and shoot down or capture anyone who dare stray onto their land.
My eyes drifted over the page and back again before settling on the warning; “More bandits spotted...be careful sending any runners.”I stuffed the note into a pocket and set off, keeping the message fresh in my mind and my knife at the ready.
It was about a half mile to the pump which should not have taken long but having decided to stay off the main streets and dodge between the darker alleyways it took twice the usual time.
I made my way through the ruins of the long-neglected town buildings until I spotted a possible vantage point, a roof had collapsed and lay like a ramp against the side of the building next to it, allowing easy access to the higher ground. I moved quickly, checking side to side as I went and taking extra care not to be exposed as I climbed up the slope.
Arriving on the roof I dropped my bag silently and settled myself against the chimney. From my position, I could see right out across the town center, a big paved square surrounding a ring of marble with the pump in the middle doubling as a sundial. Approaching looked to be damn near impossible. The big open area offered little to no cover and this combined with the threat of snipers on the tall buildings around the edge did nothing to make the task more appealing.
I sat and watched the world for some time. A group of dead shambled along the ground beneath me. They continued right across the open ground and out of my sight. I began to think of the stories the older citizens would tell. They would say that some of the dead could remain in control and stay almost exactly as they would in life, not driven by the need to kill and feed. Others would talk of these dead as terrible leaders of the roaming hordes, using their superior knowledge of the city zones to guide their fellow corpses in deadly attacks on the living. I, however, had only ever seen shuffling corpses, not unlike those that had just passed below me moments before.
My wondering mind was snapped back to reality as something else caught my vision. I could see someone moving in the shadows. I lay flat on my belly and pulled myself to the edge of the roof, hoping to get a better view.