Your support makes Blue Moon possible (Patreon)One year. That’s how long it’s been since the world went to hell. It started off small, reports of people seemingly coming back to life after fatal injuries. But they weren't the same person they were before. They were violent, with just one instinct. To eat. Specifically anything living. Humans, dogs, cats, anything they could get their hands on. Soon reports started to crop up of more of the ‘undead’, as they were being called. Apparently people that survived attacks soon died, and then came back. At first the military seemed to control it, quarantining those who were infected.
It didn't work. Soon the undead were spreading like wildfire across the country, infecting more and more people. Reports came in of similar situations across the globe. Terms such as ‘The Apocalypse’ and ‘The end of the world’ were being thrown about. One by one countries went dark, their communications cut off as the whole world seemed to fall into a state of anarchy. In a matter of weeks global communications had ceased. In a few months communication for the country had gone dark. The army, the government, any form of organised resistance against the undead fell. It soon became every man for himself.
After one year, Jack O’Connor is still alive. If that’s what you could call it. He wandered, alone and cut off from any human contact. His days were spent looking for food, water, any shelter that looked safe. For the first five months after civilisation collapsed, he was doing just fine. He’d taken his wife and daughter and ran. Most people fled into the cities, towards refugee centres. But Jack fled to the country, and it proved the right choice. The cities soon fell and he was on the run, doing whatever he had to. His one goal was to keep his family alive. But it all went wrong so quickly.
He’d left his family in the car while he searched a supermarket for anything that could help. Before he knew it his daughter’s screams were echoing out. In an instant he’d drew a pistol he’d looted and was bolting to the doors. He couldn’t believe the scene before him. A group of at least fifty walkers, as he called them, were swarming the car, dragging his screaming family out. He fired off a few shots but there was no way he could help them. All he could hear were the screams, and he could see the occasional spray of blood. The last he heard of them was his daughter screaming for him. He couldn’t even get close enough to get a shot off, to put them out of their misery, make sure they didn’t turn. After that he ran. He avoided people for the next seven months. He didn’t want the responsibility of looking after someone. He couldn’t even save his own wife and daughter, let alone anyone else. Every morning he woke up and looked at his gun, wondering why he kept on going. Was it because he thought he had failed them and needed to suffer his penance? Every morning was the same, he’d look at his gun and consider ending it. Ending it all.
This morning was no different. He’d slept in an abandoned cabin in the woods, with the furniture barricading the door and windows. He’d eaten a few pieces of fruit he’d picked a few days ago and sipped water from a small canteen, which he then packed into a small satchel. In there was several pieces of food, various types of ammo, a few survival tools and a homemade pistol silencer. He wore a pair of black jeans, with a knife and pistol belted to his waist, a white t-shirt underneath a black shirt and a pair of sturdy boots. When he was ready he pulled on a black jacket with pockets full of ammo. He slung his satchel over his shoulder, he preferred it because it didn’t slow him down as much as a large rucksack, and he set out. As he walked his eyes scanned his surroundings, noting the signs of people, walkers and various animals. He was doing just fine till about midday, when he heard screams. In a flash his hand was at his pistol l and he drew it, holding it in front of him with both hands as he made his way toward the screams. He avoided travelling with people, but he would help them if need be.
It didn't work. Soon the undead were spreading like wildfire across the country, infecting more and more people. Reports came in of similar situations across the globe. Terms such as ‘The Apocalypse’ and ‘The end of the world’ were being thrown about. One by one countries went dark, their communications cut off as the whole world seemed to fall into a state of anarchy. In a matter of weeks global communications had ceased. In a few months communication for the country had gone dark. The army, the government, any form of organised resistance against the undead fell. It soon became every man for himself.
After one year, Jack O’Connor is still alive. If that’s what you could call it. He wandered, alone and cut off from any human contact. His days were spent looking for food, water, any shelter that looked safe. For the first five months after civilisation collapsed, he was doing just fine. He’d taken his wife and daughter and ran. Most people fled into the cities, towards refugee centres. But Jack fled to the country, and it proved the right choice. The cities soon fell and he was on the run, doing whatever he had to. His one goal was to keep his family alive. But it all went wrong so quickly.
He’d left his family in the car while he searched a supermarket for anything that could help. Before he knew it his daughter’s screams were echoing out. In an instant he’d drew a pistol he’d looted and was bolting to the doors. He couldn’t believe the scene before him. A group of at least fifty walkers, as he called them, were swarming the car, dragging his screaming family out. He fired off a few shots but there was no way he could help them. All he could hear were the screams, and he could see the occasional spray of blood. The last he heard of them was his daughter screaming for him. He couldn’t even get close enough to get a shot off, to put them out of their misery, make sure they didn’t turn. After that he ran. He avoided people for the next seven months. He didn’t want the responsibility of looking after someone. He couldn’t even save his own wife and daughter, let alone anyone else. Every morning he woke up and looked at his gun, wondering why he kept on going. Was it because he thought he had failed them and needed to suffer his penance? Every morning was the same, he’d look at his gun and consider ending it. Ending it all.
This morning was no different. He’d slept in an abandoned cabin in the woods, with the furniture barricading the door and windows. He’d eaten a few pieces of fruit he’d picked a few days ago and sipped water from a small canteen, which he then packed into a small satchel. In there was several pieces of food, various types of ammo, a few survival tools and a homemade pistol silencer. He wore a pair of black jeans, with a knife and pistol belted to his waist, a white t-shirt underneath a black shirt and a pair of sturdy boots. When he was ready he pulled on a black jacket with pockets full of ammo. He slung his satchel over his shoulder, he preferred it because it didn’t slow him down as much as a large rucksack, and he set out. As he walked his eyes scanned his surroundings, noting the signs of people, walkers and various animals. He was doing just fine till about midday, when he heard screams. In a flash his hand was at his pistol l and he drew it, holding it in front of him with both hands as he made his way toward the screams. He avoided travelling with people, but he would help them if need be.
