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(POV: Marco)
The engines roared like hellhounds as we tore through the last cleared stretch of asphalt leading back to Fortress One. Dust rose in our wake, caught in the late-afternoon sunlight like ash from a dying world. I was on the back of Kiriko Miyamoto's motorcycle, my arms braced against the firm grip she kept on the bars. The woman drove like a demon with a cause—disciplined, calculated, but fearless.
Behind us, Mizuho Kazami trailed on a matte-black street bike she'd pulled from near the western outpost last week. She'd fixed it up on her own, fueled it with salvaged ethanol, and repainted the body herself with a silver stripe that gleamed like a war mark. That was Mizuho—sharp, resourceful, deadly, and efficient. She wasn't just a survivor—she was a fucking operator.
By the time we screeched to a stop at the main gates, the air was thick with tension. Kohta, Izana, and Takashi were already out front, rifles slung over their shoulders, eyes narrowed. They'd spotted the northern dust cloud we'd left behind and had been expecting bad news.
It wasn't.
It was worse.
Kiriko cut the engine, yanked off her gloves, and stepped forward with her no-bullshit stance.
"We've got a problem," I began, unstrapping my revolvers. "A big one."
Kohta adjusted his scope. "Let me guess. Horde?"
"Six hundred strong, give or take," Kiriko said, voice steady. "And more or less organized. Moving together in something close to a formation, like they were tracking noise. Probably car noises from fugitives, or someone or something is setting them in our direction."
Takashi clenched his jaw. "They heading straight for us?"
"Within the next few hours," Mizuho replied, stepping off her bike. "We saw them down Route 16. No detours. Fortress One's the next fucking landmark between them and Tokyo Bay."
Izana ran a hand through his slick hair, exhaling. "Fuck me sideways… That's more than double the total zombies we dealt with cleaning the block."
"Yeah," I muttered. "But this time, we're ready."
We gathered under the awning near the front barricade. A folding table served as our impromptu war council. I unfolded my topographic map of the block and began pointing out positions.
"Kohta-san, Izana-san, you two take sniper nests. Building 2's east rooftop and the scaffolding we rigged last week. You'll thin out the bulk before they even breach the first line. I want coordinated shots—double-taps, no wasted ammo."
Kohta nodded. "I've got about sixty rounds of match-grade left. Should last through the first wave."
"Izana, you'll cover the mid-approach with Kohta. Anything too close for his scope, you pick off."
"Done."
"Takashi-kun, you and Saeko-chan will be front-line again. Close-quarters grid, full engagement. Same formation as before, but this time with Kanako-san rotating between you two as needed. Saeko's blade, your bat, her pistols. You three are our fucking meat-grinder."
"Hell yeah," Takashi muttered, cracking his neck.
"Mizuho," I turned to her. "You and Rei-chan on relay support. You'll both be mobile, rotating through gaps in our defense. Reinforce where fire's needed and pull wounded if anyone gets hit."
"Understood," she said, her voice crisp. "I'll be armed with a long rifle and sidearm. Rei's got the SMG, right?"
"Yeah. She's steady."
Kiriko stepped in beside me. "I'll coordinate from the south catwalks. Close-quarter fallback squad with Saya, Chika, and Ruri-chan. They'll be covering retreat lines and resupplying the front when needed."
I looked up from the map. "Everyone else—non-combatants—stay in the lower sector or helping Ayumu and Shizuka have med posts set. Anyone who breaks ranks, anyone injured, that's their call to treat. No fucking heroics."
The group nodded, tension heavy.
I folded the map.
"We can do this," I said, my voice low but firm. "It'll take time. It'll take sweat, bullets, and maybe a little blood—but we are not falling. This is our house. These are our walls. And we are the last thing those rotting fuckers will see."
They all stared at me in silence.
Then Kiriko let out a sharp breath and muttered, "Let's purge these bastards."
The sun began its descent like a dying flame behind the ruined skyline. Makeshift floodlights buzzed to life around the base perimeter, casting shadows along the barricades, illuminating the sharpened fences and kill zones. Ammo crates were stacked, weapons checked for the last time.
Kohta sat perched, eye locked behind his scope, whispering to himself as he adjusted windage.
Izana loaded mags in rhythmic, practiced motion—each click a calm promise of violence.
Takashi and Saeko did stretches together near the front line, their eyes distant, steel-hard.
Inside the courtyard, Kiriko ran final checks on the fallback team. I caught her glancing my way once—brief, calculating, but something else behind it. She was in her zone, like me. Like everyone here.
Mizuho passed by with her rifle slung across her back, smirking. "When this is over, Marco-san… I'm asking for a fucking day off."
"I'll give you two," I said, grinning.
Suddenly, the radio crackled.
"Movement. Visual confirmed. Northern approach. Dust cloud. They're coming."
Kohta's voice. Calm. Precise.
And deadly serious.
I turned to face the gate. My gloved hand slid over my revolver grip.
"All units—positions!"
The ground began to rumble.
The air filled with the distant groan of the dead.
The last light of day kissed the fortress walls.
And the purge began.
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POV: Marco
The first gunshots cracked through the dusk like thunderclaps from hell.
By the time I reached the northwest wall, the horde was already in full view—shambling, snarling, pressing toward us like a goddamn tidal wave of rot and rage. They were maybe two hundred meters out and closing fast, their moans forming a low, bone-chilling drone that vibrated through the metal guard rails under my boots.
"Visual confirmed. Engage at will!" I barked into the radio.
From the rooftop two stories up, Kohta-san answered with the sharp CRACK of a high-caliber shot. One of the lead walkers dropped like a sack of meat, head split open like a watermelon at a biker rally.
"One," he muttered in his comm.
Izana-san didn't respond with words—his own shot rang out a second later, and another fell.
I smiled grimly. It's show time.
I jumped down from the ledge into the second-level scaffold and ran straight into Kiriko Miyamoto, crouched behind a sandbag wall with her submachine gun in hand and her backup pistol holstered low on her hip. Her dark-blue jumpsuit clung to her frame, tactical harness pulled tight, the red stripe on her thigh holster soaked with sweat and dust.
I jumped down from the ledge into the second-level scaffold and ran straight into Kiriko Miyamoto, crouched behind a sandbag wall with her submachine gun in hand and a backup pistol holstered low on her hip. Her black tank top clung to her frame, tactical harness pulled tight, the red stripe on her thigh holster soaked with sweat and dust.
She glanced up at me with that same cool, unreadable stare. "Took you long enough, Marco-kun."
"I had to let the old folks get a head start," I said, cocking back the hammer on my left .38 revolver. "Wouldn't want to make you look slow."
Her lips twitched. "Bold talk for someone who's got half the magazine capacity I do."
"Twice the charm though."
That earned me a smirk.
Then the wall of bodies slammed against the barrier beneath us, and the real dance began.
Kiriko opened fire first. Controlled bursts. Head-level. Every pull of the trigger snapped out a judgment call.
I followed up on her blind sides, the sound of my revolvers echoing like distant war drums, silent even—two headshots, two more, reload, pivot.
A small group tried to break left through a collapsed fence. I tossed a small scale frag grenade down, delaying them for half a second—just long enough for Kiriko to vault the barrier and finish them with surgical precision.
"Showoff," I muttered, following her over.
"Try to keep up, cowboy."
She spun, nailed one between the eyes, then rolled to the side as I popped two more flanking her.
"You're not bad with that old-school hardware," she said between breaths.
"You're not bad for someone who still uses a shoulder holster like it's 1999."
She turned to me, sweat glistening down her cheek. "You gonna keep flirting, or help me cut through the next wave?"
"Why not both?"
She laughed. God help me—it was low, dark, and sent a shiver down my spine even as we dove headfirst into a mass of groaning corpses.
POV: Kohta
"I've got four more in my quadrant," I muttered into the comms.
"Three incoming your west side!" came Asami's voice in my earpiece.
"I see 'em. And you better not miss again, Nakaoka-san. You owe me a beer."
"That last shot was a warmup, don't get cocky!"
"Too late!"
I pulled the trigger and sent another rotted skull bursting like a pumpkin in October. Another. Then a clean reload, and I slid down to the lower scaffolding just as Asami joined me, back pressed to mine.
"You always this chatty during a firefight?" she muttered, shooting two at close range with her semi-auto Glock.
"Only with girls who can actually keep up," I said with a grin.
She grunted. "Well, lucky you, nerd boy. You're stuck with me."
More came. We moved like cogs in a machine—tight, fast, lethal.
"Behind you, Asami-chan!" I yelled.
She ducked without hesitation, and I dropped the bastard with a single shot through the forehead.
She turned to me, breath ragged. "Thanks…"
Her hand lingered on my shoulder for a second longer than necessary.
And then she punched my arm. "Still not letting you take the last energy drink after this."
"Tch. That's cold."
"Zombies first, flirting later!" she barked—though I caught the smirk she tried to hide.
POV: Marco
We'd cleared the northern flank by the time the second wave surged in—thicker now. Closer. Loud.
Every wall pounded with the fists and teeth of the dead. Moans. Growls. Bullets screamed through the air.
Kiriko and I covered a retreating group of close-combat fighters—Rei, Saya, Saeko—who were rotating off the front line for water and fresh blades.
"They're not letting up," Kiriko muttered, slamming a fresh clip into her submachine gun.
"Neither are we."
She turned to me, lips pressed into a hard line.
"I don't plan on dying here, Marco-kun."
I stepped close. "You won't."
Her eyes met mine—sharp, burning—and for a second, the battlefield fell away.
Then she shoved me back playfully.
"Don't get smooth now, kid. I want dinner first."
I smirked, raising my revolver. "Deal. If we survive this shit, I'm making it."
"Better be wine involved."
We turned together and opened fire as the next horde hit the perimeter.
POV: Kohta
We were running low on ammo. Not empty. Just... pressured.
Asami pressed up next to me behind a metal barricade, panting.
"You good?"
She nodded. "Yeah… but if you die on me, I'm gonna be really fucking pissed."
"Dying ain't on the schedule, babe."
She shot me a look. "Did you just call me babe?"
"I'm stress-flirting."
"Shut up and shoot."
We popped out together. Double tap. Triple burst. Reload. Cover. Move.
The teamwork was instinct now.
As the fighting raged, our communications team in the command post sent out the warning.
"More undead approaching from the northeast sector—split pack formation. Repeat, split pack formation incoming!"
I swore under my breath. "It just doesn't fucking end..."
Marco's voice came over the comms.
"All units—hold the line. No one breaks. We kill them all."
And kill we would.
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