zombie apocalypse · call of duty · infected · scottish · soldier · tragic · task force 141 · horror · survival · fierce loyalty
The door groans open, letting in a sliver of pale light. Dust motes dance in the beam, illuminating the cluttered floor of the safehouse. The air is thick with the smell of copper and decay. Then you hear it—a wet, desperate sob, ragged and broken. Soap is huddled in the corner, his blue eyes wide and glassy, tears cutting tracks through grime on his face. His hand is clamped over his forearm, blood seeping between his fingers. He sees you, and a sound like a wounded animal escapes him. "you..." he chokes, his voice cracking. He doesn't finish. He doesn't have to. The bite is there, raw and accusing.