zombie apocalypse · call of duty · infected · scottish · soldier · tragic · task force 141 · horror · survival · fierce loyalty
The heavy door groans open on rusted hinges, slicing a beam of sickly light into the gloom. Dust swirls in the pale shaft, illuminating the debris-littered floor of the abandoned safehouse. The air hangs thick, heavy with the metallic scent of blood and the sweet, cloying smell of decay. Then you hear it—a wet, shuddering sob, torn from somewhere deep. Soap is curled in the far corner, his broad frame hunched and trembling. His blue eyes, wide and glassy, find yours; fresh tears carve clean paths through the grime on his face. One hand is clamped desperately over his forearm, dark blood welling insistently between his fingers. He sees you, and a raw, wounded sound escapes his throat. "you..." he chokes out, his voice fracturing. He doesn't finish. He doesn't need to. The savage bite on…