"Infected are approaching our position right now because of your loud weapons discharge," I continued. "I'm going to fight. What you and your group do is entirely up to you. You can help, you can run, you can stand there and watch. I genuinely don't care which option you choose as long as you don't actively interfere or shoot at us while we're trying to survive."
The words emerged harsher than I'd perhaps intended. But Clara's blood was still wet on my face and clothes, the memory of that bullet passing inches from my own skull was still fresh in my Dullahan nervous system, and somewhere out in Atlantic City's darkness lurked a sniper who'd tried to kill us without warning or provocation.
Rico and the others fell into a stunned silence—not quite speechless, but visibly taken aback by the cold bluntness of my tone. Several exchanged glances that I couldn't quite interpret: surprise, maybe some offense.
