17-First Ally

The battered convoy returned to the quarantine zone. The vehicles were covered in dried blood, mud, and the remains of the carnage they had left behind. Those who made it back, though alive, could not hide the weight of disaster from their faces.

The worst thing was not the loss of the equipment or the looted resources, but the men who did not return. Among them, Elliot Torres.

His name was already circulating among the soldiers before the convoy had stopped its engines. He was something of a legend among the ranks, a man who had survived what few could imagine. And now, the hero was dead.

The news spread like wildfire. Every corner of the base murmured his name, while some tried to assimilate it and others simply remained silent. However, no one felt it more deeply than Lieutenant Stroud, although she hid it under her usual steely facade.

-x.X.x-

In the briefing room, the survivors of the convoy were lined up in front of the FEDRA brass. A group of officers, serious and cold, occupied a table at the back of the room, taking notes and listening intently. To one side, silent, Lieutenant Stroud stood, reviewing papers with an absent expression, her gaze avoiding the soldiers.

The commander, a man with a deep voice and unquestionable authority, spoke up.

"What exactly happened out there?" he asked, his tone sharp as a scalpel.

The driver of one of the Humvees stepped forward, standing stiffly at attention. "Sir, we stopped at a town outside of Boston to search for possible resources. At first, everything was clean. We found minor supplies and began loading the vehicles."

He paused, swallowing before continuing.

“One of our own activated an old radio. The music echoed through the town, and… it was like a damn magnet. We didn’t see it coming. The infected came from everywhere. Runners, stalkers, clickers… I don’t know how many there were, sir. More than a hundred and fifty, maybe two hundred. They overwhelmed us.”

Another soldier chimed in, his words rushed and laden with guilt. “We had no choice, sir. We tried to hold on, but there were too many. Elliot… Torres… he… saved my life. I watched him cover our retreat, watched him fight to the very end. But he couldn’t… there were too many. The infected got to him, bit him. There was no way to get him out of there.”

The commander frowned. “So, they left their comrades behind.”

The driver clenched his fists, his voice shaking as he answered. “They were already dead, sir. If we’d stayed, none of us would have come back.”

Another officer chimed in, jotting something down on his papers before looking up. “You confirm that Torres was bitten during the attack?”

The soldier nodded with difficulty. “Yes, sir. I saw it with my own eyes.”

The report continued, with statements going in circles. In the end, the verdict was clear: an unfortunate incident, impossible to foresee. The higher-ups recorded it as a failed operation, and it was decided that a minute of silence would be held the next day in honor of the fallen, including Elliot Torres.

When the meeting ended, the officers left the room. The survivors also dispersed, some in silence, others exchanging empty words to assuage the guilt. Only Stroud remained, who had not moved from his place.

Her hands shook as she stacked the papers on her desk, trying in vain to focus on anything other than the emptiness in her chest. Elliot was dead. Her mind repeated those words over and over, like a cruel, inevitable mantra.

“It’s my fault,” she muttered to herself, her voice barely a whisper. "I sent him there."

Anger and guilt bubbled up inside her, colliding like two violent waves. Suddenly, in a fit of rage, she swept her arms around everything on the desk, sending papers, pens, and a lamp flying to the floor.

"Damn it!" she screamed, her voice echoing in the empty room as tears ran down her cheeks.

She slumped into her chair, her hands covering her face. Images of Elliot kept coming back to her: his sarcastic smile, his defiant attitude, the way he had fought for what he believed in, even when everything was against him. And she... she had hit him, she had judged him, she had banished him.

"If only..." she murmured, her voice choked with tears.

If only she had forgiven him. If only she had told him how she truly felt. If only she had done something different.

But now it was too late.

The tears continued to fall as Lieutenant Stroud, always strong and cold, finally allowed herself to break.

-x.X.x-

Elliot woke up with an unbearable pounding in his head and a stabbing pain in his arms. Despite having administered the Zombrex, he did not feel even remotely close to being okay. The constant ringing in his ears and the burning sensation in his wounds reminded him that he was still far from fully recovered.

“Great,” he muttered, his voice hoarse as he turned on his flashlight. The dim light illuminated his makeshift shelter in the basement. His gaze fell on his arms, where the bandages barely contained the bite marks.

The wounds weren’t as horrible as before, but they were still bad. Like the Zombrex had half-done its job, stopping the worst of it but leaving the rest for him to handle. The bites were partially closed, the edges scarred.

“Shit,” he muttered, reaching into his backpack for the med kit to change the bandages. As he worked with slow movements, cleaning and securing the bandages, he couldn’t help but notice how unusually quiet everything was.

The silence was almost absolute, broken only by his own breathing and the occasional creak of the building above him. “Looks like the infected are gone,” he thought out loud, but he wasn’t entirely convinced.

After making sure the bandages were secure and using what little disinfectant he had left, he tried to stand up. His body protested with a burst of pain at every movement. His clothes were a mess: torn, soaked with dried blood and dirt, and reeking with a stench that made him want to vomit.

“I need a change, and I need it now,” he growled, searching his jacket pockets for something useful.

As he gathered his thoughts, the reality of his situation began to set in. He had been abandoned. Most likely, everyone in the convoy had given him up for dead, which was, in some ways, a relief. Although there was a certain pang in his chest at the thought of Lawrence and, especially, Stroud, the thought of being free of FEDRA was too good to ignore.

“No more fucking fascism,” he muttered, half-laughing at his own cynicism.

He slumped against the wall, trying to plan his next move. He needed to open the system to have a plan, but he wasn’t sure how to do it. He remembered the first time it appeared; it seemed to have responded to his thoughts. He tried several things: saying it out loud, swiping his hands like he was playing a video game, even closing his eyes and concentrating. Nothing.

Finally, as he thought about opening the system with force and some frustration, the holographic window suddenly appeared in front of his eyes.

“Really? Just by thinking about it?” Elliot shook his head. “This is stupidly convenient.”

The holographic interface unfolded before him, and his attention was immediately drawn to Zombrex’s timer.

Time remaining: 6 days, 23 hours, 45 minutes.

His stomach turned as he watched the timer count down. He had no margin for error. The Zombrex worked, but each dose gave him only a week. He needed 4000 points for another injection, and he was currently dry.

“Fuck, 4000 points…” he muttered, doing the math quickly. That meant killing at least 40 normal infected to get the necessary points, and that wasn’t counting any other expenses he might need.

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to calm himself. “I’ll have to fight every damn day. If this isn’t irony, I don’t know what is.”

The holographic window continued to float in front of him, and for a moment he studied it more closely. There were tools there, things he could use. But right now, he didn’t have the resources or level to take full advantage of them.

With a sigh, he closed the system and began to prepare.

Elliot adjusted the strap of the MK12 rifle on his shoulder and checked the remaining magazines. He had two extras besides the one in the chamber, each with twenty rounds. It wasn’t much, but if he was efficient, it should be enough to get him out of the gas station alive.

He turned on his tactical flashlight briefly, sweeping the interior before heading up the stairs. The air was permeated with a metallic stench of blood and rot. The oppressive silence made every crunch under his boots seem like a gunshot in the dark.

As he reached the gas station counter, he peered through a broken window. Outside, the moon illuminated a bleak scene: infected lurking around, some staggering aimlessly, others crouched near a rotting corpse, tearing apart what was left.

Elliot inhaled deeply, raised the rifle, and adjusted the holographic sight.

First things first. Quick cleanup.

The first shot was clean and efficient. A female jogger was on her back, staggering near a rusty fuel pump. The bullet ripped through the base of his skull, causing him to fall like a severed puppet, the spray of black blood splattering on the ground.

The muffled sound of the shot barely disturbed the other infected. Elliot adjusted his position, sweeping his sights toward a jogger slowly advancing toward the gas station entrance.

Boom. The bullet ripped through his right eye, exploding the socket and leaving a mess of bone, brain, and flesh hanging from his face. The body convulsed before falling face-first onto the pavement.

Elliot quickly moved to another window, making sure to maintain cover. Two more infected were near the side of an abandoned car. One was eating something that looked like a human arm, while the other was panting erratically, as if sniffing the air.

He lined up the shot with the first one, the one crouching. Boom. The bullet pierced the top of his head, exiting through his jaw and taking off almost his entire face. The other infected turned sharply toward the sound, but Elliot had already adjusted his sights and fired again. The shot took off half his jaw, leaving his tongue hanging grotesquely as the infected fell backward, jerking in spasms until he was still.

A female jogger emerged from the shadows behind a pile of rubble, snarling as she began to run toward the gas station. Elliot wasted no time. Three consecutive shots. The first shattered her shoulder, sending her reeling. The second pierced her stomach, causing her insides to fall out like a torn sack. The third hit her right in the forehead, dulling the glow in her eyes as she fell heavily.

Five down.

Elliot walked out the back door of the gas station, his rifle steady in his hands. He moved forward silently, turning the corner toward the pump area. A clicker appeared in his line of sight, staggering as it let out those disturbing sounds that always put him on the verge of panic.

Shit. One of those.

He couldn't risk missing. He aimed carefully, adjusting his breathing. Boom. The shot pierced the fungal plaque on his head, scattering spore bits, blood, and brain across the ground.

The sound drew two more runners, who stepped out from behind a beat-up pickup truck. Elliot backed up as he lined up the sights with the first one. Boom. Boom. Two consecutive shots. The first bullet tore through the infected's chest, but it wasn't enough to stop him. The second shot blew off the top of his skull, leaving a bloody hole where his head had been.

The second runner lunged at him, hands outstretched. Elliot twisted his body, dodging the attack, and slammed the infected in the face with the butt of the rifle. Teeth shattered in a grotesque crunch, and before he could react, Elliot fired at point-blank range, ripping out his throat.

Eight.

The sound of shuffling footsteps behind him made him turn just in time to see another infected emerging from the gas station store. Elliot fired without thinking. The bullet tore through his chest, but that only slowed him down. The infected charged at him, stumbling in a pool of blood. Elliot fired again, aiming for the head. This time, the shot was lethal, and the infected fell with a thud.

Two more infected began to run from the road, drawn by the noise. Elliot backed up to the gas station wall, his breathing quickening as he reloaded. He raised his rifle, firing accurately. The first infected was hit in the jaw, which disintegrated in a spray of blood and teeth. The second shot pierced his chest, but he kept moving forward.

Boom. A third shot pierced his left eye, extinguishing his charge immediately.

Twelve.

Elliot stood still for a moment, his chest rising and falling as he surveyed the area. Corpses were strewn around the gas station, some in grotesque positions, others with their bodies torn apart. Blood formed small puddles that reflected the moonlight.

He pressed his lips together, making sure the charger was full before moving again. "One at a time. Let them all come if they want," he muttered, as he headed toward the road.

Elliot was breathing heavily as he leaned against the trunk of a tree, his arms and legs covered in dried blood and sweat. It had been a brutal hunt, but the 12 infected he had taken down had been worth it. Between the runners and the clicker he eliminated, his efforts had earned him 1600 points and a slight advance in his progress towards the next level.

When he deemed himself far enough away from the gas station and out of immediate range of more infected, he opened the system again.

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[CURRENT STATUS: INFECTED]

[SURVIVAL LEVEL: 1]

[Progress to Level 2: 12/50]

Current Points: 1600

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The familiar holographic window floated in front of him, slightly illuminating the shadowy space between the trees. Elliot watched the progress and points with some relief. "At least I'm not completely screwed," he muttered.

Wasting no more time, he opened the shop, focusing on the options available.

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[SHOP]

• Standard Soldier (Rifleman): 1000 points

- Equipped with basic rifle and tactical vest.

• [Medicine]

- Advanced Kit: 500 points

• [Food and Water]

- Small Rations: 100 points

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Elliot studied the options. His wounds were still burning, and he needed something to treat them immediately. Plus, hunger was starting to set in, and he knew he would need to replenish his strength. But the most important thing was not to be alone. Outside, away from the safety of FEDRA's walls, an ally was more valuable than anything else.

He first selected the Standard Soldier (Rifleman).

The screen flashed with a confirmation:

"Do you wish to summon a Standard Soldier? This will consume 1000 points."

Elliot thought a “yes,” and the air in front of him began to ripple like a mirage. Within seconds, a blue flash appeared, and a humanoid figure materialized.

The soldier was fully equipped: a tactical uniform, a vest filled with ammo rounds, a helmet, and in his hands, an M4A1 assault rifle with a strap fastened for rapid fire.

The man raised his head, assessing Elliot with a cold but professional gaze. “Operative available,” he said with a firm tone. “Awaiting orders.”

“Operative, huh?” Elliot muttered, struggling to his feet and brushing the dust off his pants. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to have you shine boots. For now, stay close and cover my six.”

“Understood, sir,” the soldier replied, adjusting the grip on his rifle and taking a watchful stance.

Elliot moved on to the next item: Advanced Medical Kit.

“Buy Advanced Medical Kit? This will consume 500 points.”

Confirmation appeared, and again a blue flash materialized, this time leaving a small metal case at his feet. Elliot bent down to pick it up, flipping open the latch and checking the contents: bandages, disinfectant, painkillers, and basic suturing tools. It was more than he had expected.

“Perfect,” he muttered, closing the kit before selecting the last item: Small Rations.

“Buy Small Rations? This will use up 100 points.”

When the purchase was complete, a plastic-wrapped package appeared on the ground. Opening it, he found a couple of cans of food, an energy bar, and two bottles of water.

With everything ready, Elliot checked his inventory and remaining points again.

“There’s nothing left to spend,” he muttered, shrugging. “But at least I’m better off than I was an hour ago.”

The soldier stood stock-still, watching the perimeter. Elliot began treating his wounds with the medical kit, applying disinfectant to the bites on his arms and wrapping them with clean bandages.

When he was done, he put the remaining kit in his backpack and sat down under the tree to grab a quick bite to eat. The energy bar was the first to go, followed by one of the water bottles.

As he ate, he looked at the soldier who stood at attention, like a perfectly programmed machine.

"I guess we're in this together now," he muttered to himself, letting his thoughts begin to plan the next step.

End of Chapter 17