Hisssss.
Underground shopping mall.
Bryan listened to the Stalkers hissing in the darkness around him, hunched behind a store counter, inching forward with painstaking care. Faint light filtered through cracks in the ceiling above—the only illumination in the pitch-black complex.
At least Infected weren't attracted to light sources. His flashlight beam wouldn't draw them. If it could, he'd have turned around and gone straight back to the QZ. Nothing on earth would've gotten him in here.
Sweeping the flashlight left and right, he caught glimpses of shapes moving in the middle distance—silhouettes drifting through the spore fog. Each time, he adjusted his course immediately, giving them the widest possible berth. Runners and Stalkers could still see in this haze. For them, the spores were no impediment at all.
That's the fourth one. Why are there so many down here?
As he progressed, Bryan kept a mental tally. The numbers were higher than he'd expected. He'd initially assumed a few stray Infected had wandered in by accident. That theory was looking increasingly unlikely.
He cursed inwardly. If he ever found out who was responsible for this, there would be hell to pay.
Bryan glanced at the pistol in his hand, then drew his knife instead. With the current count, he was confident he could fight his way through if it came to it.
But the situation had changed. Unknown numbers, terrible visibility—discretion was the better part of valor. His life was worth more than bravado.
Fifteen minutes of creeping along the mall's perimeter, two more Infected spotted in the central atrium, and one Runner silently dispatched when it blocked his path—and Bryan finally reached the exit stairwell.
Straight up those stairs, and he'd be past the QZ's main gate. District E would be within easy reach.
Finally.
He exhaled with relief at the sight of the stairwell entrance. Almost out of this suffocating hellhole.
Then he looked up.
His foot, already rising to take the first step, froze in midair. His entire body locked.
"You've got to be kidding me."
The stairwell's upper exit—which should have been flooded with daylight—was buried under a mountain of rubble. The passage was completely sealed.
Near the collapsed section lay several corpses. Their clothing marked them as drifters—people who'd slipped into the safe corridor and been wandering the outskirts. This answered every question at once: why there were Infected down here, why the exit was destroyed. These idiots had caused all of it.
Bryan stared at the mangled, half-eaten bodies and barely restrained himself from kicking them. He swallowed his fury, accidentally crunched a piece of debris underfoot, and accepted the grim reality: this exit was done. He'd need to find another way out.
But in the split second his attention was consumed by the blocked stairwell and the dead drifters, something had crept up behind him—silent as a shadow.
A Stalker. Close. Too close.
When Bryan turned to head for the alternate route, it was right there.
Human and Infected locked eyes. For one frozen heartbeat, the world went still.
"HSSSSS—!"
BANG! BANG!
The Stalker shrieked with excitement and launched itself at him, limbs splayed, moving with animal ferocity.
Bryan's reaction was instantaneous. The pistol came up and he fired twice.
The first round hit the Stalker's skull, shearing away the fungal growth covering half its head. The second shot screamed toward its forehead—a kill shot.
But then something unexpected happened. The instant its fungal armor was destroyed, the Stalker twisted—contorting its body mid-lunge to dodge the lethal round. The bullet tore through its left shoulder instead.
It hit the ground, rolled—and instead of pressing the attack, it ran.
The Stalker turned and fled, vanishing into the spore fog without hesitation.
"...What?"
Bryan stared at the empty space where it had been, his brain struggling to process what he'd just witnessed.
"SHRIEEEEK—!"
No time to think. The gunshots had alerted every Runner in the complex. Rapid footsteps converged on his position from multiple directions—five, maybe six sets.
"Damn it!"
Bryan raised the pistol toward the approaching shapes.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Three silhouettes burst from the fog. Three shots, three headshots. All three Runners dropped.
Behind them, three more emerged.
Click. Click.
Bryan pulled the trigger. Nothing. The gun was empty—just the hollow, mocking sound of a dry hammer.
He stared at the weapon in disbelief. He'd only fired five rounds. How was it—
But he didn't know the smugglers' convention. This route was theirs, and Infected encounters were rare. Ammo was precious, so the stashed pistols were only ever loaded to half capacity. Bryan almost never used these tunnel guns—he preferred his knife for the occasional stray. He'd had no idea.
No time for regrets. The nearest Runner was almost on top of him. Bryan hurled the empty pistol at its face. The heavy metal frame cracked against its skull, staggering it.
In the same motion, he was already moving—closing the distance in a heartbeat. His knife drove upward through the Runner's jaw and into its brain.
He ripped the blade free with a savage twist, planted his boot on the dead Infected's chest, and shoved—sending the corpse flying backward into the second Runner, knocking it off balance.
One down, one blocked. The third Runner came at him from the side. Bryan didn't even turn his head—just reached out, seized it by the hair, and slammed its skull into the nearest counter. Once. Twice. Three times.
As the Runner sagged to its knees, Bryan's knee rocketed upward into its temple. The skull caved inward with a sickening crunch.
The blocked Runner recovered and charged. Bryan caught the movement in his peripheral vision and spun to meet it, left fist already cocking back—
There.
A whisper of sound behind him. Barely anything. But he heard it.
The fleeing Stalker's image flashed through his mind. Ice flooded his veins. He aborted the punch, killed his momentum, and threw himself sideways in a desperate roll.
"HSSSSS—!"
Two bodies crashed into the space he'd occupied a heartbeat before. The Runner—and the Stalker. The same one. Half its fungal crest blown away, left shoulder torn open, still very much alive. It had circled back through the fog and waited for the perfect moment to strike.
"Haah—!"
Bryan didn't look back. He scrambled to his feet, sprinted to a tall display shelf packed with merchandise, braced both hands against it, and pushed with everything he had.
The three-meter shelf toppled with a thunderous CRASH, kicking up a cloud of dust and debris. Before either Infected could react, it slammed down on top of them, pinning them to the floor.
Bryan's shoulders dropped. Behind the gas mask, he allowed himself one ragged breath.
Then the shelf shuddered. Beneath it, both Infected were thrashing, already working themselves free.
He moved instantly. Stepping onto the fallen shelf, he found the gaps between the panels, drove his knife down through one skull, then the other.
They went still.
...
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