Christopher - A Backstory

[bathtubbarracuda 7]

This story takes place in DayZ mod, but the end is where my character's story picks up in the DayZ Standalone.

 

 

 

 

Chris continued moving on through the woods. This was, what, Day 20? Chris had pretty much lost track of time by now, and didn't care. Like he was gonna make it. Chris was pretty surprised he's still alive.

 

As a branch almost hit him in the face, the survivor paused. He heard crunching. Footsteps. Then hysterical screams. Zeds. Chris instantly drew his M9, and started looking around. He couldn't see anything, but the footsteps were getting louder. Suddenly, two infected humans, both wearing bloodstained military uniforms, started sprinting at him. Chris raised his M9, then pulled the trigger. Nothing. He didn't load the gun. Chris turned and started to run when he heard gunshots. He turned around.

 

Both zeds lay on the ground, bullet holes showing in their faces. They were shot. Then someone, masked in a ghillie suit, stepped out, M16 raised. The barrel was smoking. "Put your gun down," The survivor ordered sharply. Chris didn't feel like dying to some idiot in a grass suit, so he dropped the empty M9. "What's in the backpack?" He asked. His voice was commanding and not at all gentle or friendly. "Beans, soda, and painkillers," Chris responded. "No," The survivor denied. "You couldn't make it out on your own out here. You have more shit," The stranger, now identified as a bandit, said doubtfully. It was true, there were some M9 mags and a blade, along with some other...dangerous items, but Chris wouldn't tell. But now the bandit is calling his bluff. Then more histerical shrieking. "Get down, get down!" The bandit whispered, and they both crouched. There were alot of footsteps, so there were alot of zombies. Twigs and sticks broke under the sound of heavy footsteps of the infected. Unbeknownst to the bandit, Chris had pulled out an M9 mag, and slowly slid the clip into the gun. Then the click of it loading in. The bandit immediately looked towards Chris at the sound, but at that time the zombies, numbering around 10, broke into the clearing, and at least 7 of them pounced on the bandit. He shrieked in agony, bringing in the other zeds focused on Chris, as they bit into his flesh, His M16 going off and unaffectively hitting the zombies in the legs, not affecting them. Chris turned to run, and after 20 feet, he tripped on a log and hit his head on a rock, knocking him unconcscious.

 

When Chris awoke, it was dusk. There were flies. The sound of flies. That meant someone was dead. The bandit. And as Chris stood up, and rubbed his head in pain, he heard a groan. But not a zombie groan. A groan of pain. Then coughing. Christopher looked towards the dead bandit, and found that he was not dead, but near death. He almost threw up.

 

The bandit was horribly gored, his stomach ripped open, his left arm barely attached to the rest of his body. His legs were tattered, and his whole body was covered in blood--and bites. "Ugh," Chris muttered in disgust. The bandit was still alive. Still. Alive. He looked like he was about to just give up. But it had been hours. He had been lying here for hours. The M16 was nowhere to be seen. The bandit's dying eyes met Chris's. His ghillie suit was ripped up, torn off by the horde, and spawn gear was seen underneath. And he whispered one word, not to be dramatic, but that was as loud as he could speak. "End this." And Chris did. He aimed the M9 at the bandit's head, and pulled the trigger, killing him instantly. Then the sound of groans and yells. The zombies were alerted. Chris left the bandit's corpse, to be gnawed on by the zombies.

 

3 DAYS LATER

 

Chris awoke to see two men looking at him. He had run to an airfield, and set up camp for the night. The two men weren't masked, and although armed, smiled warmly at him. "Hey, friend," One of them said, offering a hand. Chris seized the opportunity, and grasped his hand, and was pulled up. "We're heading to Cherno," The other one said, pointing towards a helicopter. "Need a ride?" Chris nodded, smiling. While walking, he was briefed. "So what will happen is we'll get to Cherno, then drop you off, and we can go our separate ways," One of the men, introduced as Paul, said. "Fair enough," I respond as the helicopter started to spin up.

 

Chris sat there, relaxed, as the helicopter flew safely in the air. They had been flying for about an hour now, and Chris heard mutters in the cockpit. He had given them his backpack, and trusted them with it. Then he heard the word "bail," and he froze. Hot white fear blazed down his back. They might kick him out. But after around 10 minutes, nothing happened, and he relaxed. Then, as they neared the shore, Chris felt a sharp pain in his back, and felt weak. "Sorry, but this is the way its gotta be," He heard Paul say, then everything went black.

 

On and off. It was about a half hour. Paul was holding him while he felt his coat and clothes get removed, and was cold, only feeling a T-shirt and pants on. Then a backpack was placed on him, and he saw Paul holding him. "Try and find us!" He taunted before laughing, and pulling a pin on his backpack as he was thrown out of the chopper. A parachute opened up. It wasn't a backpack, but a parachute. And he was headed straight towards the water when he passed out.

 

Chris awoke washed up on a beach, near a dock. The parachute wasn't on him. There was a flashlight and a battery in his pack, along with a T-shirt and jeans. He slowly got up, and looked around. He wanted revenge. And he would have it.