Chapter 1: The Biker

A city shrouded in darkness, overrun by chaos. Noise of distress echoed the silence and roads left with derelict vehicles broken and abandoned. Fires lit in random parts of the streets and smoke filled the skies. It was a night filled with fear and devoid of hope, the night where a man fights to survive to live another tomorrow.

That man was Alexei Genoa, Russian-born and raised the Australian way. He was a man in his early twenties and with a well-built figure, broad shoulders and strong arms. He had the face of a typical Russian, a masculine jaw, a big sharp nose, rugged short brown hair and eyes as cold as winter. Right now he was in a pinch, scurrying through the alleyways with a Remington 870 twelve-gauge pump action shotgun in both his arms and half of the city's undead citizens on his back. He discharged a shell to stall them but it did little to nothing, for they were too many of them. He turned the left corner and empties one more from the chamber and blasted a grandma zombie's right in the face, killing her. He can feel his heart thumping through his ribcage as if it's trying to break free from his chest. The Infected were chasing him, they were closing in on him, like howling wolves hunting a frightened hare for supper. And he was frightened, his legs were shaking like leaves in autumn and vomit lingers in the back of his throat like barnacles on aged vessels.

Then he saw it, his eyes fixated on the red steel door that remained slightly open. The sight of it was more than welcoming, ever since the 'flu' hit it had become a symbol of hope throughout surviving community, what was left of them anyways. The only thing that was stopping Alexei from getting to the safe room was a barbed fence twice his height and hundreds of screaming aggressors that if viewed by afar, looked like devoted fans wanting more than a simple autograph. Luckily, if he didn't stay calm and decided to back up the fence to engage in a theatrical last stand with the zombies. He wouldn't have spotted two small and one big crates aligning like stairs at the side of the wall. It's time to make it or break it, he thought to himself. He leaped above the fence with his legs folded and his knees above his waist like an athlete in a long jump.

And he made it.

But the last few seconds of him colliding to the floor was anything but graceful. He accidentally cushioned the fall with his head and knee, and it felt as if his head was struck hard by a big hammer. He struggled to stand up, when he did he hastily grabbed the shotgun and stumbled inside the safe room and closed it while the Infected were trying to get through the fence, reaching out their hands hopelessly to their intended victim.

"Better luck next time guys," Alexei huffed, as he barricaded the door with a bookshelf and two tables.

He sat on an empty plastic chair and gazed on the walls filled with writings of pen and paint. Along with carvings from knives and some from presumably blood. "Shoot them in the head!" one wrote, "I like portal," wrote the other. Forewarnings of the possibilities of being nuked and notes being written to love ones were a common sight on the wall. Information was also present and provides life-saving tips to passing survivors everywhere, including location of evacuation centers and observations on the behavioral instincts of the Infected and the virus itself. Alexei dragged himself to the weapons table and replenished his rounds, he grinned at a box of flechette gauge shells besides the two Berettas that lay gleaming on the corner of the table. He holstered both of the handguns in his pants behind his back and helped himself with a handful of ammunition.

He peered through the door and prayed to himself it was clear of them.

"Ah!" he shrieked as an infected spotted the Russian and nearly tore his eyes out. A sudden surge of rage ran through his veins - he spotted an army knife near the pillar and armed himself with it. Then he rammed it in the zombie's head and yanked it back as he dropped dead on the floor.

What was rage abruptly turns into some sort of sadistic pleasure - the thought of it disturbed him deeply, so he brushed off the feeling.

…

It took a while for Alexei to realize he was in a shopping mall, he crept in the shadows as the undead inhabitants were somehow dormant and groggy. Obviously unaware of the presence of a survivor in their midst, Alexei quickly used this to his advantage. He saw a grocery store at the other side. He could use something to eat.

By now a couple of zombies already noticed Alexei's presence and proceeded to attack him. He quickly draws his Remington and fired at his assailants. A hunter lurks in the corner, waiting for the opportune time to strike. He growled to himself as a mixture of blood and saliva dripped from his jaws. The hunter separates himself from the regular Horde, the hands of a hunter possessed resembled grotesque-looking claws and abnormally sharp teeth, but one of the most prominent features of the hunter is that it has the amazing ability to jump incredibly high. It soars through far distances and has the god-given gift of both increased agility and strength – its style of attack is to stalk its prey, hence the name hunter. The hunter crouched and watched the man avidly, looking for a weakness. A soft spot for it to kill the Russian, but now is not the time.

So he waits.

…

The zombies kept coming from all directions, there were too many of them, again. He shot them down with his newfound flechette. When the shotgun went unfilled, Alexei slid out more flechette shells to reload his shotgun, only to be bitten in the right shoulder by a zombie from behind.

He shrieked in agony as the zombie's sank his rotting teeth inside his deltoid muscles and ripped out a chunk of flesh. He slipped out a mouthful of curses and elbowed the attacker right in the chin and sent him staggering at the shelves. He then unleashed both of his Berettas out - distraught, injured, and furious at the same time - both guns went blazing in the aisle in all directions, killing everything in sight.

It was the first time he was bitten, and hopefully it would not be the last. Then suddenly, a third gunshot hit at one of the remaining teenage zombie right in the face, blowing her head into smithereens. Alexei turned back and saw a Caucasian male in his early 30s, he wore a black leather vest typical of a biker with a white undershirt, he has has a Van Dyke style beard, his head was trimmed but not completely, and tattoos of exotic patterns and a well-crafted woman, with some symbols indicating an allegiance to some gang polluted from both of his arms and up to his neck. His face has a rough and a slightly gaunt complexion. Despite this, the biker has a muscular physique and a broad and sturdy figure, and seemed to have collected some battle scars along his own fight for survival.

"Thanks," Alexei said exhaustedly, "It's been a while I've seen a friendly face around here."

"First time being bitten?" He asked with a voice of suspicion, his SPAS-12 was still above his hip even though the horde was long gone.

Alexei raised his handgun and aimed at the biker's head. He can feel his shoulder throbbing as it was still bleeding from the bite.

The biker lowered his shotgun, trying not to aggravate a fellow survivor. "Let's not be hasty brother, it was just a question." He retorted and asked again. "Were you bitten before?"

"Yes," Alexei lied, he then reluctantly holstered his weapon and picked up his Remington. "I've been bitten before."

The biker let out a sigh of relief and took out something from his leather vest, he threw a pack of Twinkie at Alexei and helped himself with one.

"Twinkies." Alexei caught the snack and gave an unbiased look.

"The name's Francis." the biker let out his hand while his other hand fed his mouth.

Alexei forced a smile and shook his hand in return.

"Alex-"

Before the man can return the introduction, Francis dropped his half-eaten Twinkie and raised his shotgun. Alexei ducked in fear as the biker let out a roar:

"HUNTER!"

The hunter's cover was blown, his waiting was all for nothing as the biker manically spammed his shells directly at the hunter. The hunter gave out a small cry and jumped his way to safety while not a single bullet hit him.

Francis frowned in frustration, and said.

"I hate hunters."