From the rubble, a hand pushed through broken concrete. Jaxon groaned as he shoved debris off his chest. Sharp pain stabbed through his side.
He could feel his ribs broken. But he did not stop.
He dragged himself up, his teeth clenched, and body shaking. From the destroyed building came a thick, rotten stench that spread through the air.
Nearby infected began to howl. Their movements grew frantic and wilder.
"Damn it," Jaxon muttered, though he could barely hear his own voice.
His ears still rang, useless, as he used his rifle to steady himself. The ground shook with approaching footsteps.
They were coming.
He forced his legs to move, stumbling forward, then breaking into a painful sprint.
Every few steps, he turned and fired, dropping the closest infected before pushing on again.
Pain burned through his body, but stopping meant death.
So he ran.
