Hector turned back to the recruits. "Form up along the wall. Ammo in front, bags for cover. We get overrun, we run through that door." He kicked at a loose, hanging slab of metal that could serve as an exit. "But once we're out there, no guarantees."
The recruits obeyed, some shaking, others whispering prayers under their breath. Ammo cans littered the floor, magazines stacked in piles, rifles resting on makeshift firing posts.
"Flare out!" Joseph shouted from above. He fired, and the red light soared skyward- exploding into a bloom of crimson that painted the ruins for hundreds of meters.
He slid back down and rejoined the line. The light hung for a moment, then slowly began to fade.
And as it did, shapes began to form in the distance.
Dozens of silhouettes, crawling, sprinting, dragging limbs through the sand.
Hector raised his rifle. "Get ready."
The night become dynamic with the sounds of movement, the crunch of dirt, the crack of shifting rubble, the agonizing snarls carried by the wind.
"Steady…" Hector murmured, eyes locked ahead.
Farid trembled beside him. "I can't- I can't die here, I can't-"
"Hold it together," Darius hissed, pressing a hand on his shoulder. "We'll make it."
The first tearer burst through the smoke, its twisted body catching the firelight for a fraction of a second, letting out an ear-piercing shriek.
"FIRE!" Hector shouted.
The line erupted. Rifles thundered, muzzles flashing red in rhythm with the screams. The air filled with the smell of powder and rot. Tearers stumbled forward, torn apart by lead, only for more to replace them.
The echoes rolled through the ruins, and for a heartbeat...silence.
Then more shrieks answered back. Dozens. Maybe hundreds.
Joseph slammed a fresh magazine into his rifle, jaw tight. "I fucking hate these things! They look like underfed worms!"
Hector took careful, deliberate shots. "I agree - these fucks look better dead!"
Another creature slammed into the garage door, claws raking sparks from the metal as it tried to force its way through. Joseph stepped forward, aimed, and fired twice into its chest, then once into its head. The body went limp, collapsing against the doorframe.
He exhaled through his teeth. "Creepy bastards."
More figures moved in the haze, crawling over the fallen, screeching as they advanced. The recruits shouted to each other, passing ammo, firing blind when the flashes showed movement.
"Keep your lines tight!" Hector barked. "Don't waste shots, focus on your target then fire!"
"Callen, watch your left!" Irene yelled, as one of the tearers lunged from the rubble. Callen turned just in time to fire, the recoil sending him stumbling back.
"Still breathing," he muttered, chest heaving, "C-can I cry for a bit?"
Irene slid beside him, half-crouched, her face lit only by the flicker of the muzzle flashes. She ran a quick hand along his arm, checking for wounds. "You're fine. Cry when we're done here."
The horde pressed closer. Smoke from kicked up dust begins to cover their advance.
The horde pressed closer, their silhouettes swallowed by dust and smoke kicked up by gunfire.
"We've got more incoming! Watch your flanks!" Hector yelled, leaning over the barrier just long enough to fire a burst into the smoke. A few of the advancing shapes staggered, buying them precious seconds.
Joseph ducked behind the sandbags, breath ragged. "Down to two mags."
"Here, take one," Hector said, tossing him a fresh magazine before popping up again to fire. Brass scattered around his boots.
Soon, the sun was beginning to rise. Its light, dim and weak behind the choking shroud of smoke, dust, and sand, barely touched the ruined skyline. It was just enough to see what they were fighting - twisted shapes crawling and sprinting in the haze. The gunfire had slowed, now only coming in bursts, uneven and desperate.
"We're out!" Farid shouted, voice cracking. Farel yanked out a battered revolver and snapped it open with trembling fingers. "We're switching to sidearms!"
"Save it for later, fall back behind the line!" Hector barked, pausing only long enough to reload before firing another controlled burst. "We hold until we can't!"
Marco crouched beside Mina, feeding the last few rounds into his magazine with shaking hands. "That's it for us! Barely a mag left!"
Oleg, his face smeared with soot, leaned over the sandbags. "Same here! Half a mag, maybe!" He fired anyway, the recoil slamming into his shoulder. The final shell clinked empty against the ground. "Shit, I was right."
Irene wiped dust from her eyes and pressed herself against a cracked pillar. "We're getting surrounded!"
Irene wiped dust from her eyes and pressed herself against a cracked pillar. "We're getting surrounded!"
The defensive circle drew tighter, boots digging into the sand, shoulders pressed together as the shadows closed in from every direction. The shrieks outside grew louder...higher...closer, its originating from the garage itself.
"Hector, we should retreat," Joseph said, voice low but urgent, gesturing toward the rusted door they'd marked as an escape.
"We can't," Hector replied, barely turning his head. He pulled out his magazine to see if there's any round left, slammed into the rifle, and aimed at the door in one motion. "That's why-"
The rest of his sentence was drowned out by a violent crash. The steel door wrenched from its hinges and flew inward, slamming against the floor in a burst of sand and sparks.
A flesh-tearer forced its way through the gap, limbs jerking, mouth split wide with rows of jagged teeth, its body glistening with congealed filth and half-dried blood.
The recruits screamed.
Hector's rifle roared one last time, the muzzle flash lighting his face for a fleeting second before the weapon clicked empty. The final round punched through the skull of the tearer that had forced its way past the shattered doorway, dropping it mid-lunge in a heap of twitching limbs. "I'm out, too."
For a heartbeat, there was only the sound of heavy breathing, the clatter of spent casings, and the low, wet gurgle of dying flesh. Then...
Music.
Faint at first, like a whisper in the wind. The faint blare of brass horns were distant, but rising until it's loud enough to cut through the chaos. The tearers stopped, heads twitching, looking for the source of the sound until it swelled loud enough to rattle the very dust in the rafters.
"The… fuck?" Joseph muttered, blinking toward the horizon's red haze. "I know this song… this is from the old world…"
Hector lowered his empty rifle slowly, a hand on his pistol. His expression of disbelief etched on his dirt-streaked face. "Flight of the Valkyries," he said under his breath.
The others glanced at each other, uncertain whether to laugh, cry, or run. But the music kept growing, now joined by the faint chop of rotors and the rumble of engines - helicopters.
From somewhere above the haze, a young voice boomed through a battered loudspeaker, half-drowned by static:
"I hope you guys are still alive down there, because your asses are about to get rescued!"
For a split second, silence held. Then Hector barked a short, incredulous laugh, shoulders sagging with relief. Joseph just stared upward, squinting through the smoke and light. "About damn time you assholes show up."
The flesh-tearers shrieked, turning their focus toward the far greater threat.
The thundering rotors drew closer until the helicopters roared directly above the ruined road. Then - three massive shapes dropped from the sky. The impact sent a storm of sand and debris bursting outward, hurling nearby tearers like ragdolls into the shattered remains of buildings.
As the dust began to settle, three mechs loomed over the battlefield—towering steel giants clad in red, blue, and olive drab. Each bore a name stenciled boldly across its armored Pauldron: Beer. Wine. Whiskey.
Armed with basically upscaled infantry weapons of; submachine guns, rifles, and a repurposed close-in weapon system on Whiskey's left shoulder, the three danced in unison shredding the monsters with ease with their large weapons as the helicopters circle overhead, still blasting their loud music, as if trying to attract more tearers into the fray.
Everyone watched in awe, and relief, as their limp guns either hang from their chests or beside them.