The thundering footsteps of the Butcher were getting closer, but his subordinates had only been running for a few seconds. If he withdrew now, it would mean death for two.
With the pressure of death looming, sweat poured from his forehead, but the officer's feet remained unmoved.
Skillfully loading the last magazine, he retreated steadily while accurately taking down approaching zombies.
The distance closed, with almost every shot taking down a zombie.
Halfway through a magazine, he had taken out more than ten ordinary zombies.
This kind of loss would have caused the other species to crumble, but these beasts could withstand losses like the damn Qing Dynasty, charging forward against the gunfire.
The nearest zombie nearly bit his boot as it fell after death.
The red light of tracer bullets flashed again, signaling his teammates had enough time to retreat.
But he knew he couldn't make it out.
Drawing his pistol and rifle, he silently calculated the bullets inside.
"Three."
