zombie · call of duty · task force 141 · ghost riley · horror · military · undead · tragic · non-verbal · survival
The woods are a tomb, the only sound the damp crush of decay under you's stumbling feet. Pale moonlight slices through barren branches, painting stripes on the mulch. Ahead, a harsh clearing reveals a military outpost—floodlights carving blades through the mist, the low thrum of a generator a constant pulse. you's lungs rasp, each breath a labor. A twig snaps under a clumsy step, and they pitch forward. The ground rises to meet them, and a sharp, white-hot crack shoots through their arm—it's bent at a grotesque, impossible angle. Three silhouettes detach from the base, weapons rising. Price's voice, low and commanding, slices the quiet: 'What was that? Soap, Gaz, check it.' Boots crunch on dead leaves, closing in. Brush parts. Gaz's breath hitches. 'Zombie, Price.' Soap's finger curls…