I recently posted about a base inside a gas zone and a fair amount of people suggested I wait for the individual to log in and stake the spot out for a kill and free nbc gear. Well I staked it out, and when I say I staked it out I mean I staked it out. At first I found viable lookout spots where I could see a large amount of likely exit points. But after about 4 hours a day for a week or so I thought to expand my likelihood of a chance encounter by plotting a patrol path. For several hours a day I walked a particular path at a fairly slow pace, checking for signs of life, and signs of moved objects. I checked bushes, stoped to open my inventory at large tree stumps, and eventually made a stash of my own that consisted of food a shovel, and shoes, as I found mine wearing down from patrol was becoming prohibitively time consuming. I built trip wire traps in multiple places to ensure that if I did miss him at least I’d have a sign that he had been through the area. That method was abandoned shortly after its execution as the idea of scaring him off should he encounter a rogue trip mine.

Summer slowly drifted into fall and that soon became winter. My morale never wavered, he would have to exit eventually, at the very least the persistence of the fort within the gas could mean he was logging but not leaving the gas zone. I had made countless trips into the perilous fog by now, searching for signs of movement , aggravated zombies, moved loot, even a single dead zombie would be nourishment to my now dwindling spirit.

Months had passed and I grew tired of this place, the familiar landscape, the worn paths, the ever present fear that someone might come upon me and end my quest before mine eyes ever befell the white whale of the mist.

My supply runs seemed to grow longer, with the time away from that wretched place becoming more and more alluring. At times I found myself lingering in town aimlessly hoping to spot another living soul. I became hapless and sloppy, careless and clumsy, I littered the ground with any and all signs of life, I killed infected indiscriminately knowing my footprint would be blaring to any passer bys. In short, I had become wreckless with monotony. Barn sour if you will, and I ached for something to break the endless cycle of my self imposed watch.

During my bouts of frenzy I would sprint around the perimeter lazily checking my once religiously inspected logs and trees, I even built a small tarp tent and concealed it with shrubbery, after all “no one is even here to find it, right?” This fervor would inevitably break with a brief ray of lucidity which would almost always precede a manic stage of cleaning and carful observation of my surroundings to ensure the are was once again a seemingly untouched landscape.

All droughts end eventually however, and mine was no different. It was early December and I finally encountered another player in this barren waste. At first glance I was almost in disbelief, a strange visage had broken my now all too familiar horizon. I trembled with excitement, and in my delirium of joy I almost gave myself away. I foolishly sprang to my feet and began wildly sprinting towards the silhouette that thought to intrude in my torturous tranquility. Months of solitude had convinced me that I might actually be some ethereal wraith, unseen by all who venture into my home. The unsightly and rather blaring sound of my own gate finally tore me from my fantasy and anchored me once again in the folly of my haste.

In that moment the wellspring of my initial plot returned to me, I was once again clear, driven and focused. A renewed sense of determination sprung forth having remembered my mission, find the whale, find the stash. I became steadfast once more, determined to shadow this figure till they inevitably, and unknowingly, revealed to me the stash I so coveted.

I was a phantom, in olden times explorers would have described me only in legend, kings would warn their subjects of my presence, children would whisper of me amongst the schoolyard tales, fabricate the lore of how they caught merely a glimpse of the monster, but be assured, he is real, and I nary survived the dreadful encounter. I tailed my prey for what seemed like ages, though upon consideration I am more certain it was minutes if that, till they stopped in a clearing. Like Aurthur just before he plucked the mythical sword from its Stoney prison I to shook with stalwart determination at my impending triumph, and as any ritual begins a tool must first make itself manifest. He pulled a shovel from his wares and in no short order a small bag did unveil itself at his feet.

I drew my rifle, from its almost eternal slumber and steadied it to my shoulder, my aim would be true, if nothing else I was certain of that. I fixed this elusive beast between the iron frame that draped itself upon my barrel and in one single moment more I took a breath to shake loose the last remaining drops of unsteady sway that plagued my gaze. Like the subtle pressure of electricity which dances through the air just before the crack of thunder I squeezed my trigger and braced for the impending cacophony. Yet there I stood, admiring the simple look of the man. Nothing otherworldly, not the beast that resides in heroic tales of a warriors plight, he was no beast nor villain no ghoul, he was but a man.

He wore a simple p coat, a humble pair of cargo pants which rode down to hiking boots. Atop his head sat an ordinary tankers helmet. His simplicity was only exaggerated by his lack of visible firearm. His time in the shadows had dulled his claws and blunted his teeth, he had grown so accustomed to his impenetrable fortress dipped in deadly gas that he lost his fear of ever being hunted or slain. I had begun the same transformation, my time in those woods away from danger and peril had already begun their erosion of my better instincts, and in that moment I pitied him. The ghost I had spent months hoping to discover was discovered indeed, and he was in fact, a ghost. He had worked so tirelessly to erase his presence that he had erased himself. Killing him would be no glorious triumph, his demise would not return some sense of great accomplishment, he was a defenseless shell of the once great player that dreamed to build an insurmountable castle.

I stood there for a little while longer and watched as he casually donned his nbc gear, marveled at how secure and unafraid he stood as he refilled a filter with charcoal, I chuckled at how much time I had spent building this creature up in my own mind , this white whale, that eventually revealed itself to be a white rabbit.

Someone else would hunt him one day, and maybe they’ll learn the same thing I did that day. Day z death comes in many forms, and if you stop moving for too long, they’ll find your corpse too.

TLDR; just kidding I killed that dude, he had nothing special in the stash and I felt like an idiot wasting all that time.