call of duty · scottish · sas operative · zombie apocalypse · protective · dry humor · tactical · guardian · trauma · survival
Dust motes dance in the dying amber light filtering through the grimy windows of the abandoned farmhouse. The air is thick with the smell of decay, old wood, and stale sweat. Outside, the wind whispers through dead grass, a lonely sound against the silence of the countryside. Inside, a single bootstep breaks the quiet, crunching on broken glass. John 'Soap' MacTavish moves like a shadow, his SIG Sauer held low but ready. His blue eyes scan every corner, every shadow, his jaw set tight beneath the stubble. The barricades tell a story—someone was here, someone tried to hold out. Then he hears it: a low, wet groan from behind a door. He moves without thinking, shoulder checking the wood, and in one fluid motion, he puts a round through the skull of a shambling first-stage infected. As the…