The seconds stretched. Maybe it was only a moment, but it felt longer—thicker—like time was holding its breath.
Then Alpha's radio crackled.
"This is Foxtrot, sir. Second floor is clear—no infected, no civilians. But we've got a situation." A pause. "There are dozens gathering outside the main gate. Looks like the noise from the front door's drawn more than expected. Chain reaction. More keep coming."
Another short silence. "We don't have eyes on the front door from up here, sir, but it seems the number looks a lot smaller than the gate crowd."
Alpha handed me the comms. I pressed it to my mouth.
"Copy that, Foxtrot. You and Delta are cleared to engage once the infected are a safe distance away—don't draw early attention. Priority is the group outside the gate. Hold fire and wait for the signal."
"Affirmative," Foxtrot replied.
Another voice chimed in, this time from Charlie. "This is Charlie. We're at the back entrance. Doors unlocked. No infected in sight. Ready when you are, sir."
"Affirmative, Charlie. Stand by." I turned to Bravo and gave a quick nod.
He moved with practiced efficiency, unlocking the latches and gripping the door firmly, holding it shut against the weight pressing in from the other side. The vibrations intensified—the frame shook under pressure, the sound of undead fists relentless and urgent. But Bravo held fast. The tension in the door waned under his grip, and the violent shaking slowed, then stopped altogether. His sheer strength kept it in place.
I raised the comms to my mouth once more. "Now, Charlie. Foxtrot, Echo—stand by. You're cleared to engage the moment the first shot lands."
"Roger that," Charlie responded.
"Affirmative," Foxtrot followed after.
I handed the radio back to Alpha, who tucked it away without a word. My hands were already on my rifle, sights aligned, breath steady.
A moment later, a long, metallic creak echoed through the building—SKREEEEECH—the sound of the back door opening.
From the front window, we watched as the infected abruptly paused, their heads twisting unnaturally. Then, as if drawn by instinct, they turned and began shuffling away from the front, quickening into an uneven, staggering rush toward the sound at the rear.
I waited, watching two stragglers—late to react—still lingering near the front.
Then I raised my hand slightly as a signal.
Bravo yanked the door open.
The sudden motion drew the attention of the last two infected. They spun around—but it was too late.
Two muzzles flared in perfect rhythm. Mine. Alpha's. Two clean shots to the back of their heads. Two bodies crumpled in silence.
Execution. Clean. Precise.
The battle had begun.
3rd Person POV
The battle had begun.
As the first gunshots cracked through the stale air, the battle between Sentinel-6—alongside its Commander—and the swarm officially erupted. From the rear, three zombies staggered toward the sound of the door—only to be met by Charlie and Delta. Their shots rang out in measured bursts. While the distance made clean kills difficult, follow-up rounds struck center mass, dropping the undeads before they could get too close.
Surprisingly, one figure remained standing—a lone zombie that hadn't been hit. Not because it had evaded fire, but because it had been shielded, hidden behind the bulk of the others. Small. Frail. A girl—once a child, now infected. Her ragged dress fluttered as she let out a guttural snarl and charged, sprinting straight at the soldiers who had slain the others.
But neither Charlie nor Delta flinched.
Their response was cold and immediate: a short burst, a cluster of hot rounds to the head. The child-zombie collapsed mid-stride, skull snapping back as she hit the ground without another sound.
Above them, on the second-floor balcony, Foxtrot and Echo had already engaged their target. Foxtrot moved with calm precision, his suppressed shots thudding into skulls one after another. Each kill was silent and final. Echo, gripping the handles of his light machine gun, laid down a different kind of justice. His weapon roared like a chainsaw through timber—zombie limbs and torsos shredded under the torrent of rounds. Every burst from his LMG sent infected tumbling, bodies torn apart as if sliced by a storm of lead.
Echo focused on the cluster forming near the gate, where the infected began clawing, howling, and ramming the rusted iron with feral rage—the echoes of gunfire acting like a siren's call. More appeared by the second, sprinting in from every direction.
The old gate shuddered. The welds groaned. It leaned, strained, and began to buckle under the weight of the relentless horde.
With the immediate threats neutralized at the rear, the commander and his team regrouped near the front. Four stood ready, guns up, eyes fixed on the gate's trembling frame. The metal creaked. Undead limbs clawed at the top. Some began to scale it, spilling over like insects.
"Steady," the commander remarked.
Then—crash.
The gate gave way with a violent metallic scream, slamming into the ground and kicking up a cloud of dust and decay. The horde poured in like a flood.
But not even a single one of them flinched.
"Echo," Alpha said, pressing two fingers to his comms, "suppressing fire. Keep them back."
"Roger, Captain," came the calm reply.
From above, Echo's gun came alive—BRRRRT-BRRRT-BRRRT. The LMG barked in punishing bursts, each one carving a path through the advancing undead. Limbs flew. Heads burst. A relentless barrage halted the front line just long enough.
It wasn't enough to stop them. But it bought time.
The horde pushed forward, trampling over their own dead, eyes locked on their prey.
The commander, Alpha, Charlie, and Delta responded in kind. Muzzle flashes lit the air. Bullets tore through rotting flesh. Targets dropped before they could reach the perimeter.
Then came Bravo.
Up until now, he'd held position.
Now he moved.
With a thunderous BOOM, his breaching shotgun erupted, shredding a zombie clean in half. Another shot—BOOM—tore through two at once, the force lifting one off its feet. Blood and viscera coated the concrete.
Bravo advanced like a machine. Shot after shot. Each blast is a statement of overwhelming force.
Sentinel-6 fought as a single unit, rotating cover when one reloaded, moving like gears in a well-oiled machine. Their coordination was near flawless.
The air stank of blood, gunpowder, and rot.
But they held the line.
1st Person POV
After this I only have 1 magazine left.
The thought hit as I slammed it into the rifle. It made sense that there would be many zombies here—this area used to be home to dozens of factory workers. But This many zombies?! It wasn't normal. And their clothes... shirts, dresses—formal wear.
I stopped. I already knew what that meant.
Before the mag ran dry, the final wave collapsed. Silence fell.
I ejected the magazine and checked it. "Three rounds left," I muttered.
With practiced efficiency, I summoned a fresh one and tucked the old into my inventory, along with the empty. Reloaded. Clicked back into ready.
Some of the squad were doing the same. Those who weren't kept rifles leveled at the front, eyes sharp.
Foxtrot's gunfire was the only sound—brief, controlled shots from above—until it ceased.
Alpha's comms crackled to life. He glanced at me, then handed over the radio. "Sir, all sighted infected eliminated. Last target was seventy meters out, eastbound on the road."
"Copy that, Foxtrot. Stay vigilant. Report any second wave or new threats. Tell Echo to regroup—we're going to clear the area."
"Roger, sir."
I handed the radio back to Alpha.
Then I turned to the others. "Ammo count."
Alpha: "Four mags and twenty-five rounds, sir." Bravo: "Seventy shells, sir." Charlie: "Four mags, six rounds." Delta: "Three mags, fourteen."
"Wait," I said.
I opened the system's quest menu and claimed the reward from the first side quest. Then I switched to the shop menu, navigated to Ammunition, and dropped 3,500 Command Points. A second later, the supplies materialized—fresh mags and shotgun shells.
Echo dropped down from the balcony just as I closed the menu.
"I'm here, sir."
After I stored two new magazines into my inventory, I handed him two fresh drum mags. "Gear up. We're clearing the area."
Then I handed out the rest: mags for Alpha, Charlie, and Delta; shells for Bravo. Everyone rearmed. No words needed.
The next phase was about to begin.
After confirming everyone was rearmed and ready, I gave the signal. We moved out, carefully stepping over the mound of corpses. Each step came with the risk that something beneath might still be alive.
But no surprises waited among the dead. Just silence and the stench of decay.
Once past the bodies, I led the squad down the right fork of the road. This residential zone was split in two—the front near the highway, and the back, which ended in a dead-end bordered by dense forest and a river. My house was in that rear section, though a fair distance from the tree line.
Even with the changes over the years, fragments of memory surfaced as we moved. A few of the neighbor's houses from my parents' time still stood, albeit altered by time and renovation. Others were gone, replaced by new constructions.
We reached a familiar junction. Ahead lay older homes—about eighty meters forward was a narrow lawn once used by local kids as a soccer field. To the left: a cluster of smaller houses and a massive three-story rental unit, home to most of the neighborhood's recent population.
"Squad, get ready. We're clearing the rental units first," I said, then gestured to Alpha.
No verbal order needed. He already understood.
"Staggered column formation," Alpha called.
Without hesitation, the team adjusted. Charlie took point, Bravo followed, Delta behind him. I moved fourth in the formation, Alpha behind me, and Echo anchoring the rear—eyes constantly scanning.
We advanced cautiously. The silence here wasn't just the absence of people—it was absolute. No barking dogs. No mewling strays. No birds.
Nothing.
I pushed the unease aside. We'd arrived at the front gate of the rental units.