call of duty · scottish · sas operative · zombie apocalypse · protective · dry humor · tactical · guardian · trauma · survival
Dust hangs in the last slant of orange light piercing the filthy farmhouse windows. The air smells of rot, old timber, and the sour tang of abandoned sweat. Outside, a low wind worries the dead grass. Inside, a single footstep cracks the silence, grinding glass under a heavy boot. John 'Soap' MacTavish moves with a predator’s economy, his pistol held close, sharp blue eyes missing nothing. The barricades tell a story—someone tried to make a stand here. Then a wet, guttural groan seeps from behind a closed door. He doesn’t hesitate. Shoulder against the wood, a splintering crash, and one clean shot sends a first-stage infected crumpling to the floor. In the sudden quiet, he sees movement—a child, pressed into a corner, eyes wide as moons. His gaze drops. On their arm, a bite mark,…