Oh man. I'm quite aware of the fact that I probably shouldn't be starting ANOTHER fic before I even done with the other two I have to work on, especially considering my lack of a work ethic. However, I had an idea for something, and it was too unbelievably amazing to pass up.

Now then. Dead Frontier is a pretty serious game. It's story is serious, the gameplay is serious, the community usually plays pretty seriously from what I can tell. There's a serious (lol) lack of humor and dumbfuckery. So I sat down and said to myself, "How can I take this serious game and make something hilariously awesome out of it?"

So don't expect anything serious, despite what this prologue leads you to believe. I'm a humor/parody writer at heart after all, and I'm just warming up with an opening serious enough to be a parody of the fact that I'm writing a parody. Or something like that. I dunno. El-oh-eh.

Although if you couldn't tell the lack of serious in the story when you read the title, there's probably no hope for you.

I'll explain how this fic came about later. If I explained it all now, it would ruin all the fun.

Also, feel free to point out anything out of the actual storyline behind the game that I managed to fuck up somehow. I'm too lazy to bother actually reading the storyline, and I'm too much of an asshole to care to. Anybody should already know that by now, and I imagine you'll all get over it.

But seriously, you point something out to me and I'll fix it. I'm not THAT much of an asshole.

As always, praise me as your god if you want, flame me if you wish. If spamming my email with the F-Bomb over and over is your thing, feel free to do that too. I don't read my email more than once a month anyway.

With that being said:

DISCLAIMER: I don't own anything Dead Frontier related except for the only actual character that makes an appearance in this little opening. Just wanted to make that clear.


It was just about dusk.

A peculiar man walked down a city street barren of living humans, save for himself.

The street itself was cluttered with miscellaneous vehicles, some of which were flipped over, on fire, or otherwise the victim of a horrible accident. Some of them might have been positioned in such a manner on purpose to provide some sort of temporary cover at one point, although the times where big vehicles were commonly used were long gone by now. There was also the occasional corpse, a gruesome reminder of the vile abominations that now shuffled throughout the city, and most (if not all) of the world. All in all, it was a rather average street, albeit quite devoid of the usual presence of the infected. Of course, as everyone knows, things could change quite rapidly.

This single man continued his trek forward.

A casual description of his condition would leave most people with the image of the average survivor. A worn out coat, some tattered jeans, covered in dirt and grime. The usual. That's about all that was average about him however. Underneath his lame excuse of a coat was what was left of some sort of religious garments that would have looked quite at home in a church. Not that any of those were still active anymore. Not as commonly seen to be sure, but definitely not out of place. What was more abnormal was the large battle axe held strapped to his back with some poorly fitted straps of leather that were probably haphazardly taken from somewhere insignificant. He had no guns on him to speak of, which in the minds of most (living) survivors was pure insanity. There was definitely a glint of something chaotic in his eyes however, so perhaps they weren't that far from the truth.

He continued to walk down the street, with unknown purpose driving him forward in the direction of Fort Pastor, and there was a strangely discomforting lack of infected, as he continued his journey completely and utterly unopposed.


It was already night when he reached the outskirts of the outpost.

"No sign of the enemy yet..." he murmured to himself.