The melee fighter at his front was swinging a big mace to clear the area in front of him, giving the jackals little chance to engage, but they were waiting for the melee fighter to tire out and let him keep swinging.
The air was thick with the acrid stench of irradiated ash and burnt ozone, the remnants of nuclear fallout lingering like an invisible fog. Every breath felt like inhaling corrosion. The sky overhead was an unnatural hue—greenish-orange clouds roiled like boiling tar, casting an eerie glow across the landscape. Thunder rumbled above, not from the weather, but from constant artillery fire and sonic booms of aerial combat in the distance.
Boom! A series of distant explosions sent tremors rippling through the ground. The chorus of war had begun: the ear-splitting roar of descending drop-ships, the high-pitched whine of plasma projectiles, the guttural snarls of mutated beasts, and the unmistakable screams of those unlucky enough to get caught.
"Squad Seven! Flank the right! Support the melee core!"
The command came from a veteran sergeant with a cybernetic jaw, his voice amplified by a throat implant. The recruits scrambled, not in perfect unison—some panicked, some stumbled, others reacted with trained efficiency—but it was chaos directed by instinct and survival.
Veterans shouted orders over the comms and with their voices. One heavy infantryman grabbed a newbie by the collar. "Don't bunch up! Spread out or you're zombie chow!"
Back on the ground, others that were still parachuting down from the sky started to liberally launch or shoot projectiles at the hordes gathering below. Zerek retrieved his sniper rifle, lining up a perfect shot at a jackal tearing into a corpse—but just as he pulled the trigger, a loud thump resounded.
A melee fighter had dropped like a meteor, crushing the jackal flat.
The fighter rose from the impact zone with steam rising from his armor. Without hesitation, he drove his spiked gauntlet into another approaching jackal and tore it apart with sheer brute strength.
The rest of the jackals scattered, howling.
Zerek blinked, momentarily stunned. A barrage of plasma bolts and cryo-arrows followed, raining from the sky with lethal precision.
Inspired by the human cannonball tactic, melee fighters hovering in parachutes adjusted course, aiming for clusters of monsters. One by one, they dropped like living missiles.
Thud! Thud! Splat!
Each impact was followed by blood geysers and bone-cracking carnage. The ground became a minefield of craters and splattered gore. Above, cheers erupted through comms and mouths as adrenaline fueled both courage and madness.
Zerek stowed his sniper and pulled out his rifle, firing into the disoriented undead masses. He emptied a clip before finally deploying his chute.
He hit the ground hard but rolled to disperse the impact. He scrambled up, dropping two nearby zombies with clean headshots.
"Regrouping! Northwest ridge, now!" someone barked.
Zerek reloaded and sprinted, joining a group forming on the move. He counted twelve. By the time he caught up, he was the 17th. They moved with brutal grace—blades flashing, limbs flying. A comm-link projected a glowing arrow in the air, pointing their direction.
Zerek holstered his rifle and pulled his pistol to conserve ammo, picking off stragglers. The smell of scorched flesh and rot was overwhelming. He resisted the urge to gag.
Dead zombies littered the path, some twitching in death throes. He wanted to touch one, test his ability, but the group moved fast.
They met another squad. Now they were 35 strong. Veterans took the lead, switching to melee to conserve bullets. It was a dance of death. Zerek watched in awe as a woman wielding dual daggers cut through four zombies in one sweeping motion, her movements like water.
With the tide turning, Zerek eventually found himself rotated to the front. A zombie lunged at him. He ducked and dashed forward, slashing with his dagger. The head flew, the body crumpled.
A rush surged through his arm.
"A zombie killed by a medieval weapon can give me energy too?" Zerek whispered in wonder.
He felt stronger. Faster.
Too fast.
He stumbled forward, almost tripping. Embarrassing, sure—but he recovered fast. He grinned.
"That blue pill must be adapting still..."
Determined, he pressed forward, blade flashing. Each kill fed him. His confidence grew with every drop of blood spilled. The city was still ahead, but the real fight was already underway.