The tallic groan of rusted catwalks echoed through the abandoned factory as General Viktor "Bloodfang" Kruger stepped forward, his combat knife glinting under the faint, flickering lights. His red beret was tilted slightly, casting a shadow over his cold, predatory eyes.
The air reeked of oil, decay, and gunpowder. Sowhere below, the distant growls of the undead rumbled like a storm waiting to be unleashed.
Kruger's enhanced senses caught movent. A sudden blur in the shadows. His grip on the knife tightened.
"Still relying on brute force, General?"
A taunting voice echoed from above.
Kruger didn't look up. He knew who it was.
Sergeant Darius "Hellhound" Rook.
The elite rcenary dropped down from a steel beam, landing smoothly a few feet away. His scarred arms flexed, the burned insignia of a long-forgotten battalion visible beneath his tactical straps. His rifle rested lazily against his shoulder, but his stance was coiled—ready to strike.
Kruger exhaled. "Rook," he greeted, his tone as sharp as his blade.
"You should be dead," Rook smirked.
Kruger gave a wolfish grin. "I'm too stubborn for that."
The two warriors circled each other, years of rivalry and bloodshed thick between them.
"Voss has been experinting on you," Rook continued. "I can sll it in your blood."
Kruger's fingers flexed around the knife. His veins pulsed unnaturally beneath his skin. The bio-serum had changed him. He could feel the hunger, the darkness clawing at his insides.
"Maybe," Kruger admitted. "But I'm still in control."
Rook's smirk faltered slightly. "For now."
A sudden explosion rocked the factory, and the roar of undead filled the chamber below.
Kruger's instincts flared.
He turned sharply just as the horde broke through the lower gates—dozens of reanimated soldiers, their bodies twisted with grotesque mutations, rushing up the catwalks.
"Guess we're doing this the old way," Rook muttered, cocking his rifle.
Kruger didn't respond.
He charged.
His knife sank into the first undead's skull, the force so brutal it shattered bone. Another one lunged—Kruger twisted, grabbing its arm and snapping it before stabbing through its rotted throat.
Rook fired in controlled bursts, headshots only, his movents efficient and calculated.
"Don't fall behind, old man!" Rook barked.
Kruger laughed darkly, his knife dripping as he plunged forward.
The warriors fought like demons, their bodies moving with deadly precision, cutting down the tide of death.
But from the shadows, unseen eyes watched.
And sothing far worse than the undead was waiting.
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