Facing the sudden blaze of torchlight and the swarming Blood Cross, everyone realized in the same instant why—
The pharmacy had been left untouched because it was a "fishing" trap.
To the Blood Cross, a place that symbolized hope for survival was the perfect bait to lure desperate survivors.
All they had to do was wait for the prey to walk in and swallow them whole with ease.
In a flash, the tension pulled taut to the breaking point.
"Hahaha—!"
The hulking Blood Cross threw back its head in wild laughter, the low sound waves shaking the shattered walls like war drums echoing through the ruins.
It flung its arms wide in a motion like a command. Blood Cross lurking in the shadows all around answered with roars and pounced.
Their movements were twisted, but their speed was terrifying. Their hands held every kind of weapon—pitted pistols, spliced-together spears, even guns stolen off soldiers and police.
In the firelight, those weapons looked all the more horrifying in the monsters' blood-smeared hands.
"Open fire!"
The captain's shout was almost reflex.
He jerked up his rifle, tracking the brute's head through the night-vision glow, and squeezed off a burst.
Tak… tat-tat\~!
The shots tore the air but only ripped a slab of flesh off the brute's shoulder.
Blood sprayed with its snarl. The creature only shuddered, then kept glaring down, fury surging, the scarlet in its eyes burning hotter.
"Fall back! Get out of here!!"
The captain's roar was raw and ragged.
Ratatat!
In an instant gunfire shattered the night as the SWAT team poured everything they had.
Suppressors dulled the reports but couldn't mask the sodden pops of bullets hitting flesh.
Several Blood Cross at close range were cut down at once—heads burst, chests punched through, bodies slamming to the ground.
But their howls and the thud of falling bodies drew even more of their kind.
The entire block erupted like a zombie hive lit by flame.
Following their emergency plan, the team pivoted at once toward the narrow alley.
Cover, fire, displacement—every move was rapid and orderly, like they'd lived this scene a hundred times.
But this time, the enemy's numbers and firepower were beyond anything they'd faced.
Whoosh! Whoosh!
Sharp whips of air cut in, torchlight flaring and wobbling.
The Blood Cross weren't just brute force. They knew how to use weapons and throwables.
Then—"Pffft"—a flower of blood burst open at the alley mouth.
"Aaaah—!"
The rearmost officer lurched. A small-caliber pistol round punched through his calf. Blood seeped along the plastic wrap at his leg, dyeing his combat pants red in an instant.
His scream ripped the night, pain and terror entwined, drawing a hundred Blood Cross eyes at once.
"Hang on!"
A teammate in front snapped around, eyes fierce with urgency.
He dove back without hesitation, one arm hooking the wounded man's shoulder while his other hand kept the rifle up, dotting the pursuing Blood Cross with fire.
Each shot punched through a chest or gut, tearing a brief gap in the oncoming tide.
"Move! Move!"
The captain bellowed again, hoarse with adrenaline, voice hard enough to bite.
Five men hauled the wounded officer, stumbling deeper into the alley, their steps pounding in the narrow space.
Ragged walls were chewed by stray rounds, sparks and dust fountaining, as if the whole city were collapsing.
"Cover! Alternating cover!"
The captain snapped the order.
Two immediately halted, dropping to a knee to pick off the nearest pursuers.
The other two dragged the casualty, hauling backward fast.
In the flicker of firelight, shell casings clinked to the ground, a thin rain of brass undercut by the wounded man's low groans—a symphony of despair.
The Blood Cross roars pressed closer. They didn't care about their dead. Blood and fire only whipped them into greater frenzy.
Infected kept pouring from holes in the walls, dropping from broken stairs—an endless surf crashing inward.
In this purgatory of ruins, five SWAT officers still clenched their jaws and carved a sliver of life with gunfire and their own flesh—for themselves, and for those in the shelter.
Gunshots traded down the ruined alley, fire strobing, the team's silhouettes flashing in and out.
They fought and fell back, crisp and fast—death breathing on their necks, a hand ready to snatch their lives.
Broken brick crunched underfoot; more brass rang on the pavement, melding with distant Blood Cross howls into a grotesque death knell.
Just as they began to feel a thin chance of getting out alive, the unexpected hit.
The officer shot in the calf, stumbling with a teammate's support, was breathing harder and harder. His shoulders heaved; sweat ran down his cheeks. His eyes went hollow.
Suddenly he wrenched free of the supporting arm. His arms flailed in spasms. Then he reached straight up to rip off his helmet and night vision.
"What are you doing?!" The supporting officer grabbed for him, shocked.
Too late.
"Hahahahahaha!!!!"
The wounded man's movements turned feral. He threw his head back, a laugh like a roar splitting his throat—dry, rasping, and edged with something not human.
A heartbeat later "he" lunged, hands clamping his teammate's face like iron tongs.
"Pffft—!"
Blood sprayed.
The attacked officer shrieked, a sound beyond agony, as thumbs gouged his eyes to a pulp.
The knife-edged wail ricocheted down the narrow alley, a soul-rending scream that froze the others in place.
"This can't be…"
One of them was almost stupefied.
On the wounded officer's face, livid cross-shaped blisters had surfaced, skin flushed and swollen with fever. Black-red pus leaked from the corners of his eyes and mouth.
His expression was a rictus, all human light gone, replaced by the Blood Cross's cold, sacrilegious madness.
The sight sent the remaining three reeling in shock and confusion—
This wasn't right at all!
They knew he'd only taken a calf shot. A through-and-through was painful but not fatal. With treatment and a proper bandage, he'd be fine—let alone instantly turning into an infected.
When did it happen?
At what step?
How did the Blood Cross infect him so quietly right under their noses?
"Sir, this—"
One officer started to speak—but didn't finish.
Bang!
A crisp, decisive gunshot cut every question short.
The captain moved faster than anyone.
No hesitation. No pause. He drew his sidearm in a smooth, practiced motion, pressed the muzzle to the forehead of the comrade already turned, and pulled the trigger without mercy.
Pffft!
The bullet punched through the skull. Blood mist and brain matter splashed the powder-stung air, a tableau straight out of hell.
The body that had become Blood Cross convulsed, then dropped boneless to the ground.
But the nightmare didn't end.
The officer whose eyes had been gouged was howling, blood running over his cheeks and down his neck, soaking the worn combat uniform.
Worse—the blood from the turned comrade had splashed across his face.
The blinded officer lay on the ground, hands clawing at nothing, voice laced with despair and pain.
The captain's face went pitch black.
Brow knotted, temple veins roping, a cold hurt flashed in his eyes.
He lifted his pistol and leveled it at the still-screaming man.
"I'm sorry."
The words were low, but ironclad.
Bang!
The shot cracked again.
The bullet drilled his comrade's brow, dead center.
The blinded officer went quiet at once—as if freed from pain and despair—slumped to the ground, blood seeping into the grit.
The sight made it hard for the last three to breathe.
Grief and fury battered their chests. Their eyes burned but they didn't dare cry, because the Blood Cross howls and pounding feet were closing fast.
The captain took a deep breath, forcing the churn in his chest back down, and said coldly:
"Don't freeze up! They're gone! If we stop now, we're all dead!"
The words hit like a hammer, jolting the three survivors out of their stupor.
Their eyes refocused. Killing intent burned away confusion.
They reset the formation and quickened their pace, retreating through rubble and broken walls.
Fire still hunted their backs. Blood Cross howls felt like claws raking their spines. And they all knew that what they'd just seen had burned itself into the soul.
Pain and rage became the only fuel, driving them to sprint through the darkened ruins.
Ahead, the subway entrance lights flickered, as if tolling for the blood-red tragedy about to unfold.
Broken stone steps ran downward. At the end of the tunnel lay the hidden shelter that kept survivors alive.
But the closing howls and heavy feet told them they were out of time.
Blood Cross poured in at the end of the street. In the red glare, those snarling faces looked like demons out of hell.
Their steps were frantic and uneven, every movement steeped in desecration and madness—hungry wolves sighting prey.
Every officer knew that if the whole team fell back now, the Blood Cross would chase them into the station. In moments they'd discover the shelter.
Once exposed, the elderly, the children, the wounded—none would live.
After a beat of silence, the captain spun around, voice hard as iron: "Give me all the flashbangs and improvised charges."
The others froze for an instant, then understood.
No one tried to stop him. No one screamed "Don't!"
They silently handed over flashbangs, homemade explosives, and their remaining magazines. Every motion was swift and sure, and seared with a pain too deep to voice.
A brief look said more than a thousand words.
The captain didn't say anything more. He just nodded—an unspoken charge.
Then he pushed the shoulder of the teammate who had helped him earlier, telling them to go now.
"Go! Protect the people below!"
The three didn't hesitate. Teeth clenched, they turned and plunged into the subway passage.
Their backs vanished into the dark, heavy as if dragging a sorrow that could not be borne.
On the surface, only the captain remained.
He braced against an overturned car by the entrance, gripping his rifle, breath harsh.
The Blood Cross howls were right on top of him. Torchlight bobbed as bodies swarmed closer.
"Come on, you animals!"
He growled low, leaned out, and pulled the trigger.
Ratatatat—!
Full-auto ripped the night. Tracer-bright arcs lanced through the fire-lit air, mowing down a swath of charging infected.
The barrel smoked hot, powder stinging his nose and throat, but his hands never slowed.
He yanked a flashbang, ripped the pin, and hurled it.
"Boom—!"
White light and thunderclap hit together. Within thirty feet, infected clutched their ears and staggered back.
He poured fire into the gap, holding the tide at bay.
But there were too many.
More Blood Cross surged from the dark, lugging battered guns and crude bows.
They couldn't shoot straight, but a dense rain of rounds and arrows pattered like hail on the car husk and concrete, showering sparks.
Rounds bled the magazines dry one by one. Flashbangs flew in quick succession. In half a minute, he'd spent everything.
Breath sawed in his chest; his ears rang.
But he was still on his feet.
At last the gunfire and blasts thinned out. His rifle only clicked on an empty chamber.
He let out a long breath and a low, grim laugh.
A massive shadow blotted the firelight—
The brute among the Blood Cross had arrived.
It stood seven-foot-three if it was an inch, muscles cast like iron, chest bare and crosshatched with scars, eyes burning with a sick red light.
It stared down at the lone captain by the entrance, a cold sneer curling its lip.
The captain knew the end was here. He lifted an improvised bomb to the fuse, ready to take the monster with him.
But the brute moved faster than he'd thought.
"Whoosh—!"
Air split. A huge machete whistled past, edge flashing in the firelight. The next instant the blade slammed down on the captain's right arm.
"Pffft—!"
Blood fountained. Pain detonated in his throat as a choked grunt.
His right arm sheared off clean, flesh curling, white bone exposed.
In the firelight, the severed limb dropped with the lit charge, sparks spraying.
The pain nearly blacked him out, but his eyes stayed hard. He clenched his teeth. His left hand clawed for another bomb, blood trailing from his fingers in a crimson signature.
He knew he couldn't fall.
Even on his last breath, he had to buy time for his men—
Thud, thud!
"A bunch of scum."
And then—just as the captain was about to pass out from blood loss—he heard a pair of ponderous, ground-shaking steps and a voice with a metallic timbre.
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