The door shuddered again, a deep, guttural sound like a monster breathing against the barricade. Dust rained from the ceiling. In the dim light, every cracked tile, every snapped wire seemed to tremble.
Ada tightened her grip on her rifle, steady and calm.
"Positions," she snapped, voice cutting through the rising panic.
The few survivors who had combat experience scrambled into makeshift cover—behind overturned tables, broken shelving units, even behind each other. Those who couldn't fight huddled in the shadows, wide-eyed, clutching anything they could as weapons.
Vega slid into place beside Ada, her pistol drawn, movements fluid and precise.
"You thinking what I'm thinking?" Vega murmured, a wry edge in her tone.
Ada nodded once. "Breach is inevitable."
Another crash. The doors buckled inward.
From her cover, an older woman named Mara shouted, "We can't hold if they break through!"
"You don't have to," Ada called back, keeping her eyes fixed on the door. "Just slow them down."
Vega flashed a brief grin, eyes gleaming with adrenaline. "You're such a motivational speaker."
Before Ada could answer, the final crash came.
The doors exploded inward.
Figures poured through—twisted, emaciated things that had once been human, now driven by hunger and rage. Their eyes burned white in the dark.
Gunfire erupted.
Ada's first shot took one cleanly through the forehead. Vega dropped two more in rapid succession, moving with ruthless efficiency. The survivors fired sporadically, some screaming, some sobbing—but shooting nonetheless.
"Left flank!" Ada barked, swinging her rifle as more infected slipped in from a side breach.
Vega was already moving, covering the gap. She vaulted over a broken railing, taking position higher up to rain fire down.
A young man among the survivors—barely more than a kid—hesitated, frozen in terror.
Ada snarled, "Move, dammit!"
He stumbled into place, firing wildly. His shots missed, but at least it bought them seconds.
Seconds mattered.
The infected pushed forward in a wave of claws and teeth. One of them—larger, faster—broke through and lunged straight at a cluster of civilians.
Vega pivoted and fired. Three quick shots to the center mass dropped it mid-leap.
"Eyes open!" Vega shouted. "They're getting smarter!"
More infected swarmed the main entrance. Ada ejected her spent magazine, reloaded without taking her eyes off the horde. The mechanical click of the rifle locking home was a sharp, grounding sound.
"We need a fallback line," Vega yelled over the gunfire.
Ada scanned quickly. "Second floor stairwell. Clear a path!"
"Copy that."
Together, they began forcing the infected back with brutal, clinical precision. Every move was practiced, a dance of survival they'd perfected without words.
But the survivors were faltering.
Mara was pinned behind a toppled table, bleeding from a torn arm. Two others had already fallen, their bodies dragged into the shadows.
Ada clenched her jaw.
"We're not losing more," she hissed.
She moved first, charging toward Mara with covering fire. Vega backed her up, sending sharp bursts into any infected that dared approach.
"Get up!" Ada barked as she reached the older woman, yanking her to her feet.
"Can't—" Mara gasped, eyes wild with pain.
"Can and will." Ada half-carried, half-dragged her toward the stairs.
Vega vaulted down, slamming the butt of her gun into an infected's skull as it lunged at Ada's exposed flank.
"Move, soldier!" Vega snapped, grinning fiercely.
They reached the stairwell. Behind them, the surviving civilians scrambled after, spurred by sheer survival instinct.
As the last of them stumbled into the narrow passage, Ada and Vega hauled a heavy metal shelf across the entrance, barricading it for precious moments.
Breathing hard, Ada pressed her back against the cold wall.
"Status," she barked.
A shaky voice answered—Jonas, the kid who had frozen earlier. "Eight...eight survivors, including us. Two wounded. Ammo's low."
Ada nodded grimly. She glanced at Vega, who was leaning against the stairwell railing, loading a fresh magazine with quick, practiced motions.
"We can't hold them forever," Vega said quietly.
"I know."
From below, the infected howled, clawing at the barricade. The metal screeched and groaned.
Ada turned to the survivors, her voice cutting through their panic.
"We fall back to the second floor. Regroup. Reinforce. If you can shoot, you shoot. If you can't, you carry the wounded."
Mara, pale but stubborn, nodded fiercely. Jonas looked like he might pass out but gripped his pistol tighter.
Vega stepped forward, flashing a wicked grin. "Don't worry. Stick with us, you'll live long enough to regret it."
It pulled a few shaky laughs from the group—a sliver of morale in the darkness.
They moved up the stairs as fast as the injured could manage. Every creak and groan of the building sounded like a death knell.
When they reached the second floor, Ada and Vega immediately began setting up a secondary perimeter. Broken furniture, torn banners, anything that could slow an advance.
The survivors followed orders, fumbling but determined.
Ada crouched by a shattered window, peering down at the street.
Vega came up beside her, brushing dust off her sleeves.
"Not ideal," Vega said lightly.
"Not dead," Ada replied.
They shared a brief, fierce grin.
Behind them, the survivors rallied around the stronger fighters. A sense of desperate unity bound them together—fear, yes, but also something more.
Hope.
A sudden crash below warned them—the infected had broken through the first barricade.
Ada and Vega stood, side by side, facing the stairs.
No words passed between them.
They didn't need words anymore.