"To your left! Left dammit! Shoot!"
The frantic noise of gunfire failed to drown the groaning, slumping noise of the undead. Marching like crowds of emotionless protesters, these mindless savages know no pain or fear. Their only motivation is to satisfy their bloodlust upon any living creature, before they themselves rot to their deaths. The only three still-breathing humans among the en masse undead relegated them as an endangered species. Who ever knew, that mankind had much to fear when their species itself became the minority.
"Down for the count!"
Jackson made a quick glimpse at a dozen or so zombies that he downed. With his MP7 submachinegun shouldered at ready, Jackson hastily backed off before turning one-eighty towards the opposite direction, catching up with his remaining team mates. Jackson and his other two comrades were part of Team Alpha, commanded by Wills, who was also among the trio of survivors. The other one is Morris. Wills turned his back quickly, unleashing buckshot slugs upon the undead with his Benelli M4 combat shotgun, covering Jackson as he moved closer towards him. Morris followed suit, turning to the same opposite direction as Wills, crouching on his left knee and putting down the undead parallel to his firing trajectory with his G36C assault rifle. Jackson reached them and the desperate survivors marathoned onwards, looking for a safe escape route.
"The chopper's ETA is 0430 hours. We can't miss this one!"
Working for a Private Military Company, their team was contracted by an influential pharmaceutical firm to rescue civilians in one of their classified laboratories, purportedly held hostage by a pro-environmental terrorist group. What was suppose to be a rescue mission degenerated into an unrequested change in their rules of engagement, as the classified facility they were deployed in turned into an endless night of undead parade. It appears the firm has been illegally experimenting with human reanimation, when things turned unexpectedly awry as the biohazard containment system mysteriously failed. The disease the test subjects carry spreads quickly, infecting civilians and their own comrades alike.
Team Alpha, originally deployed with eight men, was down to only the three of them. Those who did not make it with them were overwhelmed by the undead, and possibly joined their new brethren. Some were also killed when the civilians they rescued began showing symptoms of reanimation, failing to let go of their human instinct to protect, and died rather foolishly. Wills, Jackson and Morris did what they have to do for their own good: abandon the civilians, both the healthy and injured, and take off with only their lives. Being PMCs, their motivation for fighting is profit, not humanitarian assistance. Abandoning the hostages for their own safety was a sound decision, as far as their ethics is concerned.
"Aww hell. This is not good..."
As cliché as it may sound, the trio took the wrong turn and came face-to-face with a dead end. No longer having the option to flee, the still-breathing survivors, all military veterans, faced the armies of undead as if they were Spartans going up against the Persians; it was a severely disadvantaged 3-to-1000 battle. The three unleashed volleys of aimed shots, knowing well that firing fully-automatic without thinking will literally favour the zombies an instant hearty meal. The numbers up front were picked on three-by-three for every shot, yet the sea of undead was relentless: for every three undead given God's salvation, ten more took control of Satan's chariot. Jackson's MP7 overheated and jammed. He was down to his sidearm.
"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon. Turn back damn you! We ain't got no KFC!"
Wills gasped when his shotgun ran out of ammo. This is not a videogame. You're not expected to find ammo by examining your environments or stumbling upon it by chance. When your firearm is dry, draw out your sidearm. When your sidearm is dry, improvise. When you have nothing to improvise, say hello to Jesus for everyone.
Wills threw his shotgun and reached out for the pair of SIG P226 handgun holstered on both sides of his legs. He fired several quick but well-aimed shots, double-tapping the forehead of every zombie that crossed his line of fire. Morris desperately tries to hold off the undead, at the same time that he tries to keep his cool. He's the only one in the group with a functioning primary weapon; the only guy with the big gun and firepower. If he's gone, they're all late night supper. Jackson, unflinched by the sight of the undead and the smell of death they carry, drew his combat knife out, charging towards the nearest undead, grabbed it by its neck before it could sink its teeth on him, and tore out its Adam's Apple clean all the way through.
It seems this is the end of their show. Help was nowhere to be found and the gap between them and the ironically named dead end grew closer. Without any of them noticing in the life or death tug of war they're facing, a faint glint of a sniper scope watched from afar. A mysterious stranger, unbeknownst how long had he stood there, readied his rifle, zeroing in towards one of the undead. The click of his rifle confirmed the release of kinetic energy. Power comes from the barrel of a gun, and so is hope.
