Amon's memories were fractured, like shards of glass scattered across time.
He remembered the roar of engines, the vibration of his fighter jet beneath him, the endless drills of the airbase…
He had been a pilot for fifteen years, proud and disciplined, trained to strike from the skies.
But when the Zombie Apocalypse began, the airbase had already been compromised.
The hangars were crawling with the infected, the runways blocked by wreckage and corpses. No fighter jets ever lifted off.
Only a handful of helicopters managed to escape with their blades cutting through the chaos.
Amon and a few of his brothers had been left behind.
He recalled the desperate firefights, the dwindling ammunition, the screams of his friends as they turned into monsters. He remembered the moment when his rifle clicked empty, when the swarm closed in, and when even his fellow soldiers, men he had trained with, laughed with, lunged at him with dead eyes and gnashing teeth.
