No Survivors

My name's Fenrir, or Fen if you really want. I'm not going to tell you my real one. In a world full of walking corpses, I kill humans. Most people would say that makes me a bad person, but personally I quite like letting down other people's expectations. It's fun, and it's not like I have better things to do. We're five years into the zombie apocalypse and I haven't died yet, so don't be surprised if I'm a little crazy. And narcissistic. And have an obsession with explosive weaponry. So anyway, don't expect me to be a hero, because I sure as hell ain't one. *WARNING: contains violence and swearing*


1. A Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

I kill humans. Some might say that is nothing special, considering the reanimated corpses of the infected are trying to kill us every day, and that we kill them in return. But I do not mean the zombies when I say I kill humans. I mean that I kill the survivors. Those tough enough to make it through the chaos, tough enough to survive the first five years. I kill them because, if left unchecked, they would kill far more people than I do. After all, it’s only natural for bandits to raid, pillage and murder as they please.

You may call me Fenrir, or Fen if you really want to. My real name is none of your concern. Where I come from is irrelevant. My sign is that of a wolf. That is how you know that I have cleared a camp, by the wolf’s head spray painted somewhere visible in the centre of camp. That and the dead bodies.

Nowadays, the survivors have mostly banded together, creating little villages holed up in zombie-proof fortresses. Each one has its own stories and legends, but the one thing that nearly all of them have in common is that some section of the population thinks that they are better than the others. They hoard resources. They steal food. They hurt other people. I call them bandits, and to me they are no better than zombies.

I am perfectly aware of the hypocrisy of what I am. After all, I harm the loved ones of every bandit I kill, harm the residents of every village I burn. But what I am is not some mere human. I stand for something more. Because Fenrir is a ghost. A watcher in the darkness. The demon who will take you if you do wrong. And people will keep to the straight and narrow for fear of incurring my wrath.

Damn, that sounds cool when I say it like that. When you picture Fenrir, you must picture a mighty man as strong as an ox, with muscles of steel and fire in his eyes. What you don’t picture is a skinny 17 year old boy, and that’s the way I like it. After all, with a reputation like mine it is probably best not to be recognised.

I work alone. I know that in this world where you can be killed, eaten or turned at any second, it is extremely stupid to wander around outside a safe zone without at least two other people in tow. But I like to think of myself as a badass. But really the issue is that I have zero people I trust. I keep secrets, and I’m dangerous to be around. All in all, it really is not a surprise I have no friends at all.

Everyone in this shattered wasteland carries a weapon. Mostly, these are melee weapons, bludgeons for smashing skulls. The kind of weapons which were widely available when the dead first came for us, and the kind people, especially men, formed an attachment to. Axes, bats and spears are the most common, followed by home-made bows and arrows for some of the more talented. Knives are carried by everyone. It is a must. If a zombie gets you on the ground then a good stab to its eye socket will do it in. Besides, they’re handy for all kinds of things. Some people have swords, which are really cool if you ask me. The issue is that the swords that were available were either ancient or not meant for a year’s worth of undead combat, so they’re rare to see nowadays. I do have a Japanese short sword, a wakizashi, which I carry at my belt. It was originally part of a pair, but I lost the katana in a gas explosion (don’t ask, it was messy).

Guns. I love them. Simply because they are very, very effective. If you want to kill something stone dead, use a gun. Guns are quite common, which was initially a surprise because they aren’t legal like in America. But finding one with ammunition? Never going to happen. A year of protracted combat has seen to it that everyone is down to their last shells. I have a gun, a rifle which served me well during the first few months. But it ran out of ammunition about a month ago when I used it to fell a fleeing bandit. So I keep it at the back on my weapons cupboard and hope for the day when I get hold of new bullets for it.

Now, onto my favourite weapon ever – the crossbow. It is as effective as a gun, if lacking slightly in range and accuracy, and is nearly completely silent. A crossbow will never attract zombies to your position. Best of all, assuming you know where to get the parts you need, you can make yourself a near unlimited supply of bolts for it. I have three. My first crossbow, Jimbob, which I recently re-stringed and always fires slightly to the left, its replacement, Skullfucker, which is slightly more powerful and a heck of a lot more accurate, and then The Mangler, with caps on the ‘the’. This is the biggest, meanest, crossbow in the whole of Britain. It requires a winch to load it, a tripod to aim it and a section of metal railing to fire, but when it goes off, that thing will kill whatever’s in its way, no exception. I once loaded it with pencils to see what would happen and I still find splinters on the target room floor.

My crib is awesome. Seriously. From the outside, it looks like a regular office building with its windows shoddily boarded. The ground floor is entirely open and I took out the staircases, leaving me with a whole building with no way in hell for a zombie to get up to it. The first floor has holes cut in the floor to shoot down at zombies from. The second floor is my armoury and target practise area. The third is my recreational area and wannabe workshop. The fourth is storage and the roof is where I grow my crops. Seriously, you can never be too careful with food, so it’s best to have some in reserve at all times.

No one knows where I live except me, so I made the outside look as ordinary and mundane as possible. Even my crops are hidden behind stacks of wooden palette. However, I do have a cool wolf’s head flag I can hang from the windows if ever someone comes for revenge.

Given how good it is, you would have thought I would use it, but in all honesty I spend hardly any time there. With no petrol, walking from place to place takes absolutely ages, but I have a job to do and I’m the only one who will do it. Fenrir must be feared.

Oh, yeah, I forgot to mention the name. Fenrir is the name of some wolf god of the Norse people. Apparently, his job is to eat the sun, so I thought that would be a cool name to go by. Especially since I’ve always liked wolves. Why did we have to get zombies instead of werewolves? Dammit science!

So yeah, enough about me. Well, actually, no it isn’t considering I’m the main character in this particular story book. But anyway, enough background. Let’s get down to the nitty-gritty.

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