Dayz End: Survival: Dayz End, #1

By Sam Fairbrass

What exactly brought on the end?

Nobody knows, but as the world crumbles into ruin, it doesn't really matter.

Only one thing matters now,

Survival.

First came the pandemic and along with it a horrible sickness that ripped the world apart.

Then, as everyone tried to recover, a new danger loomed over the horizon. Now all that remains of the once-busy cities are crumbling ruins and the dead roaming the streets.

What do a soldier, a primary school teacher and a serial killer have in common?

They all survived the zombie apocalypse!

And now they're forced to find a way to stay alive using whatever means available.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sam Fairbrass
• Release date: Mar 15, 2024
• ISBN: 9798223916321

Book preview

For Scott, you were there when I needed someone the most, You helped turn my life away from the darkness that was consuming me.

Thank you.

When there’s no more room in Hell, the dead will walk the Earth.

—  George A. Romero

Prologue

As their night came to an end, they found themselves walking along a different route to normal. Without the usual rush of the high street, it seemed unfamiliar and intimidating.

The sky was clear, but the rain from the day before had made the ground soft and damp underfoot, small puddles reflected the moon’s light in an eerie, ominous way and minute strands of water had evaporated into the cool night air, leaving a fine layer of mist as they trudged on.

The blackened surface of a river reflected their silhouettes as they wandered aimlessly alongside it, ignoring their dark clones that disappeared into its depths.

Darkness was pressing in on the two of them, creating a stronger feeling of discomfort. He pulled his arm tighter around her shoulders, allowing her to smell the oddly pleasant mixture of his sweat and cologne; the warmth of his body close to hers was reassuring and welcome.

The wind stirred around them, rustling reeds at the river’s edge not far behind, they seemed to continue rustling like shambling footsteps long after the wind had died, adding to the unsettling atmosphere that was bearing down on them like some form of predator.

The solemn shadow of a bridge loomed up in front of them, stretching over the winding river and disappearing into the distant fog far beyond the furthest stretches of their vision. There were no streetlights to illuminate its frightening profile, making it even more foreboding. The mere sight of it caused her muscles to tense and she began to shake uncontrollably. Her companion mistook her tremors as a sign that she was cold. Removing his jacket, he placed it onto her shoulders. It was warm and unnecessary, but she did not reject the gesture.

She had never been here before; she felt lost and terrified. Still, he continued and still, she followed, the sense of timid curiosity mixed with the growing fear of being left behind as it overwhelmed her.

The wind blew again — this time making the hollow beneath the bridge groan as though voices of many hidden assailants echoed out from the dense black opening beneath the giant stone arch.

They pressed on with hearts pounding in their ears. She could feel him stiffen as he became more alert — it made her feel even more unsettled. Another groan arose from the wind, but her focus lay ahead of them, straining their eyes wide in the darkness, fearing to look back.

She saw it then — an odd shape on the ground ahead of them, illuminated in the pale moonlight, just out of reach of the darkness.

At first, she thought it was a fallen tree trunk, but as they drew nearer, the details became more apparent; with each step, it mutated into something far more sinister.

A smell clawed at her nostrils, causing her to gag — it was nauseating. She turned away, closing her eyes briefly as she tried to filter clean air through the stagnant cologne sprayed onto the jacket that was draped over her shoulders; after a while, she took a deep breath and managed to force herself to look back at the prone shape.

A silent scream formed in her throat, it wasn’t a tree — far from it — it was the body of a man, sprawled out on his back as if he had fallen from the bridge above.

He appeared to have been dead for a while; the stench was just a clue, but the rotting flesh on his face confirmed it. Sloughs of it had fallen away in places, leaving the bone exposed. His mouth was open in a frozen expression of fear, eyes wide and unblinking, glazed over and lifeless.

As they stood there taking it all in, thoughts pressed in on her, making the fear even more real, were those bite marks? She thought, maybe an animal? But they look... Human!?

What had happened? Was it possible they had stumbled across the scene of a horrific murder?

She wanted to persuade him to turn back, to run away, but the words wouldn’t form; she had become mute, paralysed by the fear that had consumed her, rooting her to the spot.

They had become so absorbed in the scene before them that they hadn’t even noticed that the wind had stopped; despite this, the groans from the bridge behind them continued. Uncertain of what she should do next, she clung harder to his arm.

He tried to stoop down to investigate further, but she held tighter onto his arm, preventing him from moving freely. ‘I’m jus’ gonna get a better look,’ he reassured. Like a fool she consented, releasing her grip.

He lowered himself into a squatting position, looking at the body from all sorts of different angles. Grimacing, he pulled out his phone, pressing the number nine three times before dialling.

Had she really just seen what she thought she had? Did the body just move? Her eyes widened and a scream had left her mouth before she could stifle it, diverting his attention back towards her. That was not what she wanted, she willed him to run, but all she could do was watch, helpless.

What happened next was the product of some form of nightmare. It couldn’t be real — a slow jerking movement at first as a perverse form of life returned to the body that lay still seconds before; then, before he could react, it was alive, pulling at him, biting him and scratching at his body, almost trying to tear him apart piece by piece. All of a sudden, it buried its teeth into the skin of his neck, easily tearing it away and barely chewing before it lunged in again for another taste.

He collapsed, dying, screaming for her to help him as the creature descended upon his twitching body, devouring more of him in a frenzy of inhuman hunger. His bloodstained phone lay discarded to his side as a woman’s voice called from it into the air: ‘Nine-nine-nine, please state your emergency,’ before the screen went blank as the battery died.

Tears welled in her eyes as she started to back away; his voice was gurgling as he drowned in his own blood, his movement stopped and he lay motionless, the attacker feasting on him unaware of his companion nearby.

It was all her fault; if she hadn’t screamed, he would have been fine — he could still have protected her, but now she had to run. Before she could even turn, several pairs of arms were around her and, suddenly, pain erupted from her neck and her arm as she felt what was unmistakably teeth ripping through her soft skin. She fell to her knees and so did they; blood poured from the fresh wounds. She began to scream, her voice growing weaker as she struggled against the weight that bore down upon her. All she could see was her life passing into the blackness of nothing in front of her as more teeth tore into her and then... Silence.

In the distance, a TV played to itself, and a news reader called out to an empty room as the wind carried the sounds of screams from all directions in through an open window.

Within seconds the world had descended into chaos.

Jack

The sun had begun to set beyond the horizon and Jack Connors was perched on the roof of his house, twiddling a large kitchen knife in his hands. He stared blankly into space as the light danced across the tiles at his feet. What he wouldn’t do to have a gun, would be a great solace, he thought to himself, but there was little chance of getting one.

His dad used to have a gun hidden in his drawers amongst his socks, but that was before this had all started, the likelihood of it still being there now was slim. He had dreamt of many elaborate methods of obtaining the weapon since the beginning, but he shook them out of his head as fast as they entered, dismissing them entirely.

He closed his eyes as the last light from the sun hit his face, illuminating the dried streaks left by tears on his cheeks. Tilting his head back slightly, he embraced the delicate heat before it disappeared behind the horizon, feeling the temperature drop dramatically.

Even though the sun had gone, the sky was still bright, the brief beauty of dusk was accompanied by an eerie quietness. It was that awful silence that made Jack shiver, not the pressing cold.

In the distance he could make out the outline of the city; plumes of smoke flowing out of the buildings into the gradually darkening sky like volcanoes erupting in sequence.

He had turned twenty-one not long ago; in fact, it was only two days before the world was turned upside down. He was young and fit, but he was no athlete — he spent too much time in his room playing on his game consoles to be any good at sports — but he knew he could run if he had to.

His mother once used to say that he was a looker, with neatly chiselled features and a pair of perfectly blue eyes which worked well with the sandy mess of hair that covered his head. He pushed his fringe away from his face, thinking of his mum and how she was the first in his family to die.

He remembered the state she was in when she returned home from work two nights ago — he had been cooking himself a pizza — concern gripped him immediately as she stumbled through the kitchen door; he noticed she was extremely pale and looked as though she was about to be sick.

The last memory Jack had of his mother was of her lying frail and broken on her bed — after he had helped her into it — staring at him through hollow sockets as she fell in and out of consciousness. Her last words were an incoherent mess of sounds that dropped clumsily from her mouth as it twitched open and closed.

Jack shifted slightly as he sniffed back the tears that had begun to resurface, his backside was growing numb again — it had been difficult to keep balance for so long on the hard roof tiles, yet he had managed it; for what? Three hours now? Must be a record, he thought, but there was no use for records now, not now the world was gone.

Three days had passed since the first news broadcasts of a new sickness that was claiming the lives of so many and no one had any clue of what was going on. For the most part, Jack had been sitting on the roof, watching as it all played out before him. The only other place he had deemed safe enough to venture other than the roof was his bedroom, which he only returned to for food or water.

Jack’s room was in the attic, which was separated from the rest of the house by a ladder; a ladder that had been hastily pulled up the day his family had turned.

If his brother hadn’t sacrificed himself to keep Jack safe, he would have become a shambler. A name Jack came up with as it fit perfectly with the way they moved — unnaturally disjointed and aimless.

His stomach churned, signalling that it was time to return to his room and find something to eat. Shifting his weight forward, he gracefully slid down the tiles to the window of his room, which stuck out of the roof like a trapdoor.

Lowering himself cautiously onto the floor of his bedroom, he could hear the gurgling groans of what remained of his family below. Sniffing back more tears that threatened to burst forth once again, he began to scour his room for food.

Empty crisp packets filled the bin in the corner and the odd chocolate bar wrapper decorated the floor around it; he had given up caring about being tidy as he kicked over his discarded clothing in his search. Eventually, something caught his eye — perched on his chest of drawers was an orange; he wrinkled his nose at it looking for something else, anything else. He never had a taste for fruit, but it was all there was — it would have to do.

He moved towards the drawers and picked it up, looking it over, hunting for a reason not to eat it — any trace of mould would do; other than the fact that it was softer than usual, he found nothing. After all, it had only been there for just a few days.

Freeing the orange from its waxy skin, Jack screwed up his face at the pungent spray of citrus that clung to his nostrils. Shovelling the segments three at a time into his mouth, he was finished in seconds. It hadn’t been as bad as he remembered, but that may have been due to the current circumstances.

When he was done, he carefully crept towards the entrance to the floor below — a small square opening cut into the floor, next to which lay the ladder — he lowered himself onto the carpet next to it and dropped the orange peel through the hole — something he would have never done if his mother had still been alive. It landed with very little noise, yet it was still met by excited-sounding rasping breaths as a lumbering figure burst free from the shadows.

Very much like Jack in looks, his brother was four years older. He was once called Dan, but there was one key detail... Dan was clearly dead and no longer in any real need of the name that he once responded to. Its head was hanging to one side and where its shoulder met its neck, there was a large wound — a bite mark with dried blood spilling from it, giving slight colour to the otherwise grey skin.

Jack shuddered and turned his gaze towards the rest of the room below — it was a horrendous sight — all the furniture had been upended and there was dried blood everywhere. Bloody handprints decorated the once-blue walls, adding a macabre contrast to the grandeur of the once well-cared-for landing.

The door to his parents’ room was off its hinges and lying within its threshold. Jack could only just about make it out as the landing grew darker; he knew that this was where his parents were... when it all started.

And, just like that, the memories came flooding over him once again.

Jack closed the door; the image of his mother’s rapidly decaying face was still burning itself into his brain. He turned and walked downstairs and into the living room where his father was watching a documentary about cars on their wall-mounted TV.

‘Dad?’ Jack struggled to keep his voice level.

Martin Connors turned his head away from the screen to look at his son, his eyebrows raised in an expression that told Jack he was listening, but Jack could see his attention was slowly diverting back towards his programme.

‘I – I,’ he swallowed and tried again, ‘I think mum’s got that virus that’s been on the news.’

Martin’s eyes flared wide for a second: ‘What makes you say that, Jackie?’ He clicked the mute button at last, his full attention on his son. Jack could see his father’s usually strong composure fade slightly.

‘Well, she’s just gone straight to bed and she... She really doesn’t look too good...’ He trailed off as the image in his head returned, taunting him.

‘She’s probably just tired; they’ve been riding her at that job of hers recently. I’m sure she’ll be right as rain after some rest,’ the man stood up, his balding head shining in the light. He clapped a slightly chubby hand on Jack’s shoulder: ‘If you’re truly worried, I’ll check on her and make sure she’s comfortable, okay?’

‘Okay, Thanks, dad.’ Martin disappeared from the room and up the stairs. Jack heard his voice muffled through the ceiling above him:

‘Hey, Hon, Jack says you’re not feeling too good?’

No response.

‘Hon?’

Jack was already on the landing when Martin’s shouts erupted from behind the closed bedroom door, the door to his left burst open and Dan lunged into the hall.

‘What’s... What’s going on!?’ His voice raised to carry over the desperate shouts and bangs that resonated from their parents’ room.

Jack froze, his eyes wide and staring as the wooden door bulged outwards as if something heavy had collided against it.

‘Jack, get into your room now!’ Dan forced him towards the ladder and stood between it and their parents’ door: ‘Well? What are you waiting for? Move!’

Jack scrambled clumsily upwards, his feet slipping on the rungs in his haste. He looked over his shoulder in time to see the door come crashing free of its frame and into the bannister which splintered against the impact.

‘Ah, shit! Mum!?’ Jack heard his brother shout and peered back through the hole in his bedroom floor as their mother came lurching out through the doorway. Dan — who had been trying to follow Jack up the ladder — jumped away from it just in time as their mother hurtled towards him.

‘Mum, stop... What’s wrong with you?’ Dan pushed out at her as she attempted to bite him; she didn’t respond — it wasn’t their mother anymore.

Dan dodged her a second time and she tumbled heavily into the bathroom as Dan slammed the door behind her, knocking over a bookshelf to block the door.

‘Now, mum, you’re not getting out of there until you...’ He was cut short by a ferocious bang against the door. ‘Fuck!’ He said breathlessly, looking back at his little brother, who was still spectating through the hole above.

‘Stay up there! You so much as come down here, I’ll beat you into next Tuesday! You get me? Not until I know it’s safe.’

Jack nodded, swallowing as Dan disappeared into their parents’ room.

‘Fuck!’ Jack could hear Dan rummaging around out of sight before he reappeared