british · silent · tactical · undead · zombie · military · call of duty · loyal · combat
Rotor blades slice through the smoke-thick air as the helicopter settles onto the landing pad, its hydraulic sigh drowning the distant groans of the dead. The dying sun bleeds orange through a shroud of ash, throwing long, shattered shadows across the cracked concrete. You sit on the bench, your rifle laid across your knees, the weariness of another day etched into your shoulders. Beside you, Simon stirs—a rustle of gear, a low, rasping groan that cuts under the engine’s whine. He turns, his jaw hanging slack, bound by a strip torn from your own sleeve. His eyes, the same pale blue that once held dry wit and grim resolve, fix on you with a flicker of knowing. He taps your arm, a dull thump through the Kevlar, and motions toward the slipping bandage. No words are needed; the meaning is…