Okay,” Greg murmured. “Come on, let's go. Nice and easy.”
They entered the bay. It felt like stepping into a slaughter house. Slowly, easing their way into the bay, they began navigating the alcoves created by the stacks of crates. The clicking sound came to them once more, much closer this time. Greg swallowed, his muscles tightening in anticipation of some unforeseen attack.
What could possibly be making those noises?
They came out of the alcoves about halfway across the bay, into a makeshift courtyard that housed a few mobile platforms obviously meant for use by the base personnel in reaching the higher-up crates if they needed something. There was a great deal of blood on the floor, though only a handful of body parts.
“Something's wrong...” Campbell murmured.
“ This feels like an ambush,” Greg looked around for just such an event.
Abruptly, the wet clicking noises, which had become a background murmur by then, cut off dramatically. It became eerily silent.
“Get ready,” Greg whispered.
Something moved in the shadows of an unlit alcove in between a pair of crate stacks. Greg trained his shotgun on it and began to let out a warning when it launched itself from its hiding place, directly at him.
It was new, he realized as he squeezed the trigger and lit the place up in a flashing freeze-frame of muzzle flare. Greg caught a glimpse of it before its head vanished in a thin, black vapor of blood and brains.
It had once been a man, but the Undead infection had taken that man and worked him over into something downright wretched. The torso had become hunched over and the arms and legs were longer than was natural. The skin was pallid, almost a perfect titanium white, and the veins stood out more than ever, like a wicked, all-too-detailed road map to hell. What was different, and most terrifying of all, was its hands.
It didn't so much have fingers as it did giant black claws that looked like industrial-strength, razor-sharp hooks meant for little more than rending and tearing. Even as this one fell, more of them emerged from the shadows, from around and over the stacks of crates, all of them making for the survivors in the open area.
Around Greg, guns spoke. Shotguns, pistols, and rifles, lighting the environment up. The squeals of these new things fought for auditory dominance over the gunfire. There was no time to think, merely to act.
Black blood flew on the air, razor claws sought to rend flesh and snap bone. Greg sighted up another terrifying face and let loose, blowing the thing's head clean off. He turned, barely had time to aim, and tore away half the skull of a third. He heard a sound above him, swung his gun up and saw one leaping down at him from overhead. He fired, punching a fist-sized hole in its chest and sending it flying wildly off course.
Greg emptied his shotgun and barely had time to bring his pistol into play as even more of them rushed him and the others. He heard them fighting at his back, doing everything they could to stem the abrupt tide of undeath that had ensnared them. He emptied his pistol, slapped a fresh magazine in and emptied it again.
The bullets went in and the black blood came out. Finally, there was a break in the tide. He emptied a third magazine and was reloading when two things happened. The first was that he had no more targets. The second was a loud screaming.
Greg spun and saw one of them had leaped onto Reed and was now tearing the man into pieces. Blood gushed in every direction. Mike put the barrel of his rifle to the thing's head and fired, the force of the three-round burst picking the latest monstrosity up and tossing it aside. Greg moved forward, but it was already painfully obvious that there was no helping Reed. His face, neck and chest had been literally shredded.
“ Good God .” Mike stared at the corpse.
“ This just keeps getting better.” Greg wiped some blood off himself.
“ Come on, we're almost there,” Kyra said.
They lingered
They entered the bay. It felt like stepping into a slaughter house. Slowly, easing their way into the bay, they began navigating the alcoves created by the stacks of crates. The clicking sound came to them once more, much closer this time. Greg swallowed, his muscles tightening in anticipation of some unforeseen attack.
What could possibly be making those noises?
They came out of the alcoves about halfway across the bay, into a makeshift courtyard that housed a few mobile platforms obviously meant for use by the base personnel in reaching the higher-up crates if they needed something. There was a great deal of blood on the floor, though only a handful of body parts.
“Something's wrong...” Campbell murmured.
“ This feels like an ambush,” Greg looked around for just such an event.
Abruptly, the wet clicking noises, which had become a background murmur by then, cut off dramatically. It became eerily silent.
“Get ready,” Greg whispered.
Something moved in the shadows of an unlit alcove in between a pair of crate stacks. Greg trained his shotgun on it and began to let out a warning when it launched itself from its hiding place, directly at him.
It was new, he realized as he squeezed the trigger and lit the place up in a flashing freeze-frame of muzzle flare. Greg caught a glimpse of it before its head vanished in a thin, black vapor of blood and brains.
It had once been a man, but the Undead infection had taken that man and worked him over into something downright wretched. The torso had become hunched over and the arms and legs were longer than was natural. The skin was pallid, almost a perfect titanium white, and the veins stood out more than ever, like a wicked, all-too-detailed road map to hell. What was different, and most terrifying of all, was its hands.
It didn't so much have fingers as it did giant black claws that looked like industrial-strength, razor-sharp hooks meant for little more than rending and tearing. Even as this one fell, more of them emerged from the shadows, from around and over the stacks of crates, all of them making for the survivors in the open area.
Around Greg, guns spoke. Shotguns, pistols, and rifles, lighting the environment up. The squeals of these new things fought for auditory dominance over the gunfire. There was no time to think, merely to act.
Black blood flew on the air, razor claws sought to rend flesh and snap bone. Greg sighted up another terrifying face and let loose, blowing the thing's head clean off. He turned, barely had time to aim, and tore away half the skull of a third. He heard a sound above him, swung his gun up and saw one leaping down at him from overhead. He fired, punching a fist-sized hole in its chest and sending it flying wildly off course.
Greg emptied his shotgun and barely had time to bring his pistol into play as even more of them rushed him and the others. He heard them fighting at his back, doing everything they could to stem the abrupt tide of undeath that had ensnared them. He emptied his pistol, slapped a fresh magazine in and emptied it again.
The bullets went in and the black blood came out. Finally, there was a break in the tide. He emptied a third magazine and was reloading when two things happened. The first was that he had no more targets. The second was a loud screaming.
Greg spun and saw one of them had leaped onto Reed and was now tearing the man into pieces. Blood gushed in every direction. Mike put the barrel of his rifle to the thing's head and fired, the force of the three-round burst picking the latest monstrosity up and tossing it aside. Greg moved forward, but it was already painfully obvious that there was no helping Reed. His face, neck and chest had been literally shredded.
“ Good God .” Mike stared at the corpse.
“ This just keeps getting better.” Greg wiped some blood off himself.
“ Come on, we're almost there,” Kyra said.
They lingered
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