The apocalypse started on a Wednesday.
No one was entirely sure who the Patient Zero was; every country seemed to have its own. The first reports of people being bitten were recorded in India and China. Consequentially, that's also where the first quarantines were established. The number of people infected was less than a thousand, at the time. Scientists and doctors and religious figureheads debated on the source of the disease, though no one theory was ever established.
The media didn't say anything about its outbreak other than a brief: a contagion of unknown origin has been located and quarantined in Mideastern countries, including but not limited to Kazakhstan, India, Mongolia, and China. Law enforcement officials and experts are converging on the subject to bring about a cure for those infected. Until the virus can be neutralized, officials ask that any traveling to these areas be postponed until such a time that there is no longer a threat of contamination.
They were fools.
The next outbreak of the virus appeared where no one had immediately thought to take into consideration. Svalbard, an island away from any direct contact with the infected countries. Ever since the outbreak, airlines and any other forms of travel were greatly reduced, also imposing far more rigid standards of security. The people became agitated, but the government assured them that it was only a precaution. There was no cause for fear. The virus would soon be contained.
But it wasn't.
The panic quickly rose for the entirety of the continent as soon as it began spreading. It extended across oceans. To the Americas, to the Islands. This disease was far worse than anything they could have imagined, anything they could have planned for. The quarantines were useless and the contagion spread faster than a conspiracy plot.
There was no preventing this.
It took little more than a month for all of Europe to be eradicated. Urban areas were like bacteria-infested breeding grounds for the carriers. The disease was carried and transferred in the exchange of bodily fluids. Saliva. Or blood. All it took was being bitten by one of the crazed to be infected. Within minutes upon being bit, the victim would experience one of two results:
1) They would be turned into one of the masses of infected subjects. Or;
2) They would be eaten alive.
Either way they were lost.
Many of the survivors decided to end their lives before they were taken from them. Those who remained sometimes thought of them as cowards, but really, they envied them for escaping this hell on their own terms.
Of the remaining there were a few groups: those too fearful to take their own lives, those too stubborn to, those who still had hope that they could outlast this Armageddon, and then those caught somewhere in between. Too scared to be hopeful. Too scared to not be.
The Compound was the title given to the refugee base. Of the five known to the area, The Compound was one of two that had survived the onslaught. A fortified bunker, it housed a few hundred of the uninfected. Of those hundred, nearly a third was trained in the use of firearms and machinery. For protection, nearly every one of those trained carried a small arsenal at their disposal. It is for this reason that they had survived as long as they had. That and the strategic placement of The Compound allowed for a clear advantage on oncoming enemies.
The last attempt had been mere hours ago. It wasn't a large-scale attack, but it was enough to warrant multiple guards at every post. The rotation cycled at three hour intervals, ensuring the vigil of fresh eyes.
And on this particular rotation, this is where John found himself.
This was also where he almost lost himself.