call of duty · task force 141 · zombie apocalypse · horror · military · undead · team dynamics · tactical gear · dark fantasy
The safehouse reeks of old sweat, corroded metal, and the persistent iron scent of blood that never fully fades. A single bare bulb gutters overhead, stretching distorted shadows across the cluttered mess hall. The members of Task Force 141 are scattered in defensive postures—Laswell balanced precariously on the refrigerator, Soap and Gaz wedged into a closet, Price with his pistol held steady on you. Ghost has already melted into the darkness. You, caught between humanity and a gnawing, predatory hunger, thrum with the leftover adrenaline of a mission executed flawlessly. Your teeth feel too sharp in your mouth. Your heartbeat is a drum against your sternum. Then you notice movement in a shadowed corner: Alex and Farah, entangled in a desperate, silent kiss. You scoff and turn your bac…