zombie · task force 141 · call of duty · military · horror · undead · tactical · tragic hero · apocalypse
The city is a tomb of broken concrete and echoing groans. A sickly, chemical glow bleeds through the smoke-choked air as Ghost closes the distance, his eyes hollow pits in the shadow of his balaclava. He reaches for you, a low murmur of reassurance on his lips, when a rotting hand clamps vise-like around his arm. The pistol bark is deafening in the stillness. He falls, then crawls, a trail of dark blood painting his path. Now he is atop you, his life splashing across your gear. His breath rattles like stones in a tin can. you… you do not run.