My avatar remains concealed, wedged under the bush where I left him. I check that he is still hidden from all angles, then open my in-game map. If I head straight to my objective, southeast from my current position, I will have to wade through two large towns. Here in Chernarus, those built-up areas will be filled with the walking Zed and criss-crossed by survivors scavenging for food and equipment. Instead, I decide to head due east, skirting along low stone walls for a kilometer and a half, and then move south towards the Black Forest. I have never been in those woods, but they're just north of my rendezvous point and offer concealment the whole way to the meeting.

I'm two weeks into my third life in DayZ, a zombie-infused mod for modern military shooter ArmA II that now has over 500,000 players despite still being in alpha. In those two weeks, I've stocked my ALICE pack with everything needed to survive the game's harsh environment for days without having to take the time to hunt and cook: two cans of beans, a hunk of wild boar meat, and three full canteens of water. If I run into trouble, either human or Zed, two morphine injectors can get me back on my feet while the painkillers keep shock at bay. Hopefully I would burn through the six 30-round magazines of 5.45mm ammunition for my AK-74 before it comes to that. If all else fails, I have a single M67 defensive grenade.

Death at this point would force me back to one of the spawn points on the beach, supplied with nothing more than a single bandage and a flashlight. Death means no pistol, no hatchet, no food. Death means a high chance of more death.

In such a state, it could take me a few days of play just to collect enough equipment to survive once more on my own; I don't have that kind of time. I'm also haunted by the memories of my second life’s final moments, trapped alone in a barn by a pack of zombies—legs broken, unable to move, quickly devoured.

The last item in my inventory is a single blood bag, which I have to chuckle at. It might save my life, but only if I can use it—and you cannot give yourself a transfusion in DayZ. For that, you need another player that you trust, and those are in short supply this far north. That’s why people call Dr. Wasteland, M.D.—the man I'm headed to meet.

The Rendezvous

Just getting to the meetup point is grueling. Taking the safer, more circuitous route through the woods requires a multi-night effort by foot, and "safety" is a relative concept. Here in the central northern section of the 225 km2 map, I am occasionally forced to silhouette myself against the softly rolling hills, making me easily observable for miles around. This region of Chernarus is helicopter country, and the hope of finding a downed chopper and its accompanying ultra-rare weapons attracts roving bands of heavily armed bandits, starved of ammunition for their powerful guns. They run laps from the northwest airfield, down through the supermarket in Stary and the abandoned church in Novy, then back to their hidden camps in the far northern woods, killing and looting as they go. If I zig-zag a bit and vary my speed, I should make a hard target for anyone drawing a bead on me through a sniper scope.

A couple of hours into my trip, I scan Novy Sobor from the top of a hill with my binoculars, trying to get my bearings. I've been glassing the town for perhaps three minutes when I hear footsteps. One… two… at least three sets running towards me from the west. Hidden inside a pine tree, my back against the trunk, I don't risk any movement. Four heavily armed survivors pass not more than 10 meters from me. Two have DMR semi-automatic sniper rifles, one has a silenced M4, and the last has an M240 machine gun—bandits just back from a raid on the airport, no doubt. Their footsteps begin to fade out to the east before I realize I have been holding my breath—in real life. I re-plot my course to avoid them.

DayZ is a cruel game, in that it forces new players into the world with little to no understanding of its rules. Most players know there are zombies, but few appreciate how fast and how fickle they are until it's too late. Most know that loot is rare, but few know where to find even those trifling items to be had in the safer parts of the map. The very easiest way to survive—indeed to thrive—in this world is to kill your fellow man. Often you can loot other players without even firing a shot; just listen for the flies buzzing around the carcasses of the dead. But some players refuse the bandit's life on principle.

After perhaps four hours of careful in-game travel over two days, I can finally see the burned-out husk of Kumyrna’s buildings through my binoculars. It is here that I will, finally, meet the good doctor.

Dr. Wasteland

Cries for help The The "need medical assistance" thread on the DayZ forums stands at 50 pages as of July 1, and it reads like a 911 call log. Broken legs, gunshot wounds, survivors passing out from shock... The thread is a haven for people learning the game, and also an unofficial quest board for those on the White List. From pages 49 and 50: “Morganski”: I am in need of a blood transfusion. I’m down to about 2,500 blood and am passing out all the time. I have 2 bloodbags on me and willing to give one away if you’ll come help me. I am up near Berenzino at the docks. “gobacktogo”: Does anyone have antibiotics? I really need them. Can not pass a zombie with that cough. “alexispao”: Need blood badly! It’s around 2.5k and I am very far away from towns (near Vishnoye). If anyone can assist that would be awesome! “sp2468”: I really need help. I’m right outside a barn on the way to Stary from Electro. I’m on 4k blood… after being attacked by two bandits, one in Electro and one outside of it.

Dr. Wasteland takes the harder path. He is one of the very few people playing the game who is actually here to save his fellow players. He is the progenitor of an elite group of combat medics and the curator of the “White List,” a catalog of the only people in DayZ that you can trust without question.

I find him hidden inside the burned-out church, where he's plucking zombies off with a silenced pistol, clearing the way for me to reach him. We move away from the buildings and the wandering undead, out into the woods where we chat by starlight through night vision goggles. (We are too afraid of drawing attention to light a fire). He looks around nervously while I transcribe our conversation.

“I've never been betrayed by a patient," he says. "Never. Most of the time I die it's because I am doing stupid stuff, or a sniper gets me in an open field.”

He holsters his sidearm but still clutches a monstrous M249 light machine gun to his chest. I wonder what people think as they see him running past their position. Are they afraid to fire? Eager to down him and take his kit?

In a world this paranoid, even a healer has his limits. “In every case if I see a[nother] survivor and they don't see me, I let them go," he says. "If they see me first, I run. If [we see each other at] the same time and we're close, I might start shooting. You’ve got to protect yourself.”