Location: Abandoned Military Outpost, Sector 4A – Romanian-Ukrainian Border
Time: 06:45 | Day 2 of Infection Collapse
The dawn broke over a graveyard of war.
Twisted fencing and overturned troop carriers marked the boundary of the old NATO outpost. Watchtowers stood like broken teeth, silhouetted against the ash-colored sky. Craters and scorch marks littered the cracked tarmac, relics of the first chaotic days after the Crimson-27 outbreak swept across the region.
Logan Hale crouched behind a burnt-out MRAP near the gate, scanning the perimeter through a cracked scope. His breath fogged faintly in the morning chill. The silence was wrong—too still. Not even crows dared to roost here.
Behind him, the squad prepared for breach.
Reaper One loaded a fresh drum into his six-barrel rotary cannon with a heavy clunk. Each movement of the Tier 2 heavy infantry was deliberate, hydraulic muscles hissing beneath armored plating. Wraith knelt beside a sandbag pile, assembling a motion sensor node from the System's toolkit. Hammer checked the structural integrity of a collapsed hangar bay to the east, while Alexandru Petrescu double-checked Sofia's makeshift gear.
"This used to be a border checkpoint," Wraith muttered, squinting through thermal lenses. "Romanian Army rotated recon units through here pre-Collapse."
Logan nodded. "That means two things: there might be leftover supplies—and if there are, they'll be underground."
He activated the Military Command System.
> [WAR CREDITS: 142.4]
[Summons Confirmed:]
– Ammo Crate (5.56mm NATO, x3 Mags): −4 WAR CREDITS
– Heavy Ammo Crate (7.62mm Gatling Drum): −7 WAR CREDITS
– Medical Kit (Advanced): −12 WAR CREDITS
Remaining WAR CREDITS: 119.4
A shimmer of blue light rippled ten meters from his position. With a brief static pulse, three objects materialized: a green steel ammo crate, a drum canister with REAPER-ENGRAVED in white stenciling, and a beige medpack wrapped in a red cross.
"Load up," Logan ordered.
Reaper One approached, kneeling as he slammed the drum into his side port with a hydraulic hiss. "Gatling drum secured. Rounds: 800."
Petrescu tossed Logan a fresh mag and kept one for himself. "Locked and loaded."
Sofia stayed close, eyes darting toward a rusted bunker ahead. "There's writing on the door."
They advanced slowly, using old barriers and half-sunken trucks for cover. Logan motioned Hammer forward.
"Door's reinforced steel, coded lock burned out. I can torch it, but it'll take time."
"Do it."
As Hammer set up a cutting rig, Logan scanned the area. A distant scream echoed from the north ridge—too far to be a threat now, but close enough to mean trouble.
Wraith's voice cut in. "Movement. Northwest quadrant. Possible infected—single contact."
Logan turned. A figure, walking, dragging something.
Then it stopped.
And saluted.
Everyone froze.
The infected stood motionless in the open, dressed in tattered Romanian military fatigues. Its skin was gray and blistered, its mouth sewn half-shut by strands of old sinew. And yet—its posture was unmistakable.
Salute. Right hand raised. Palm inward. Regulation perfect.
"Is it mocking us?" Wraith whispered.
"No," Logan said grimly. "It's remembering."
The infected dropped the salute—and charged.
Reaper One opened fire.
The Gatling gun spun with a roar, hurling tracer rounds into the courtyard. The infected didn't flinch. Rounds tore through its chest and shoulder, but it kept sprinting—zig-zagging between craters, throwing itself low just beneath the arc of fire.
It reached the barrier in three seconds.
Petrescu fired three rapid bursts. Two rounds clipped its leg; the third struck its head mid-leap, snapping the neck backward. It hit the ground in a twitching heap.
Sofia gasped, backing into Logan. "It was fast—too fast."
"They're testing us again," he muttered.
> [Infected Eliminated – Class: Retained Memory – 25 WAR CREDITS Earned]
[New Subtype Logged: Class Bravo – Tactical Remnant]
Before he could respond, Hammer cursed. "Cutting's done. Door's jammed."
"Reaper—breach it."
Reaper One stomped forward and punched through the warped steel like it was cardboard. The entrance to the bunker yawned open, stale air rolling out in a wave of rot and mildew.
Logan raised his rifle. "Wraith, with me. Hammer and Petrescu, hold perimeter. Sofia stays between you two. Reaper, point. Let's see what's worth protecting down there."
The descent was tight—narrow stairs spiraling into darkness, emergency lights flickering red along the walls. Bullet holes scarred the plaster. Blood dried in drag trails along the steps.
"Someone made a last stand here," Wraith whispered.
They reached a steel blast door, half-open. Reaper pried it wider with a grunt.
Inside: a command chamber. Dust-covered terminals. Crates sealed in rusted bands. Shelves full of MREs and gas masks. Most importantly—a rack of intact rifles and a long-range radio unit, still powered by backup batteries.
"Bingo," Logan breathed. "We just found Echo's spine."
He brought up the System again.
> [Forward Outpost Secured – Tier I Supply Depot Unlocked]
+2 WAR CREDIT/hour Passive Income
[Comm Link Detected: Global Uplink (Offline)]
[Option Available: Reactivate Long-Range Broadcast – Requires 1 Power Cell]
"Damn. No power cell," Logan muttered. "We'll need one to send a signal beyond local range."
"Think they left one behind?" Wraith asked.
"Doubtful. But maybe the depot outside Suceava still has one."
They returned topside, where the wind had shifted. Smoke now drifted from the east.
Hammer was securing the gate with a chain of metal scrap. "Saw movement in the trees. Thirty meters out. I think we've got company."
Logan checked his HUD.
> [Proximity Alert: Hostiles Detected – Approaching in Formation]
[Threat Level: Moderate–High]
[Infected Count: 11+]
[Ammo Remaining: 5.56 – 6 mags | 7.62 – 1 Drum (Reaper)]
He didn't need to say anything. The squad moved automatically—Reaper repositioned to overwatch, Petrescu and Hammer took flanks, Sofia found cover behind the ammo crates.
"They're hunting in groups now," Logan muttered.
"Worse," Wraith replied. "They're hunting in fire teams."
Logan drew a flare from his vest and slammed it into the concrete. The red light bathed the area in hellish glow as shapes emerged from the treeline—crouched, spread out. Not shambling. Coordinated.
They didn't run.
They advanced.
---
To be continued…