GTAG Chapter 66: The Executioner
From a ridge some distance away, Hank stared at the base engulfed in flames. His feelings were complicated.
He had lived there for years—he couldn't pretend to feel nothing now that it was gone.
But what puzzled him more was how so many zombies had converged on the base. Could it be that the entire town's dead had gathered here?
Impossible.
Even if someone had accidentally drawn them in, the numbers shouldn't have been this overwhelming.
It felt deliberate. As if something had intentionally herded them toward the base.
Since his mutation, Hank's instincts had grown unnervingly sharp.
Maybe he should go back and take a look.
After being infected, his body hadn't just become monstrous in appearance—his strength had skyrocketed.
He could now leap ten meters into the air, his muscles carrying him like some apex predator. And he had the distinct sense that zombie bites no longer posed a real threat.
If they bit him, fine. It would only worsen his mutation.
That thought alone gave him a reckless calm.
But his main reason for returning to the zombie-infested base wasn't bravery. It was ammunition.
He had taken a lot with him when he left, but bullets were the one thing you could never have enough of.
Maybe some weapons had been left behind. Maybe his private stash, buried in his yard, was still safe. Back when he was squad leader, he'd hoarded more than his share of rounds. He had hidden them under the earth of his garden.
With his strength and leaping power, getting back inside the base wasn't difficult. He bounded from rooftop to rooftop, the horde below howling but unable to touch him.
For the first time, Hank felt contempt. Zombies were nothing. Not like before, when he relied on his guns. Now, even barehanded, he wasn't afraid.
He reached his house. The yard showed no signs of being dug up. Relief washed over him.
The bullets were still there.
If the attack had been delayed by even two days, his stash would have been unearthed by scavengers. In a starving base, no one left resources untouched.
But a new problem arose: how to dig them out.
A sea of zombies pressed against his yard walls. They wouldn't hold for long, and Hank had no time to start shoveling.
He remembered the bloodstains by the base gate. Not everyone had escaped—some had stayed.
And their weapons?
Zombies didn't destroy firearms. They should still be lying around.
Relying on his speed, Hank darted back to the entrance, leaving the horde behind.
He quickly found them: scattered guns on the ground, near piles of shredded bones. The defenders hadn't even had the chance to rise again as the undead. The horde had torn them to pieces.
Hank shook off the gore from the weapons.
Three pistols. Two semi-automatic rifles. Several magazines.
Not bad. His objective was achieved.
The buried stash could wait for another day.
Just as he was about to leave, a sudden whistle cut the air. Hank turned just in time to see a spinning battle axe flying straight toward him.
He jerked backward, narrowly avoiding death.
The axe smashed into a wall with a thunderous crash, embedding itself deep in the stone.
Hank's eyes widened. What kind of weapon was that?
The answer came with heavy footsteps.
A figure strode into view: nearly two meters tall, head covered with a sack pierced by long nails.
The Executioner.
It saw Hank, broke into a run, and within seconds was on him. A fist the size of a boulder swung down at his skull.
Hank raised his arms in time. The blow hurled him backward, slamming him into a wall.
"Cough… cough…"
He pulled himself free of the crater in the stone. Dust, not injury, choked his lungs.
The hit hadn't hurt him at all. If anything, it told him something important—this monster wasn't stronger than him.
Killing it, however, would be another matter. With power like that, its defenses were bound to be tough. His guns might not do much.
He tested it anyway. The semi-auto barked in his hands, bullets hammering the Executioner's head.
His accuracy was sharp, his strength nullifying recoil. Most of the shots hit home, tearing flesh.
But the monster didn't flinch.
Not enough damage.
Hank grimaced. Fighting an enemy that refused to die wasn't terrifying—but it was infuriating.
Then he noticed something. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Executioner moving toward the embedded axe, reaching for it.
Hank's eyes lit up.
That axe… looked useful.
With a burst of speed, he snatched it free first. The massive weapon slid smoothly into his grip. He swung it experimentally. Heavy, balanced, perfect.
The Executioner froze, staring.
Wait. Did you just take my weapon?
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