Mission

That morning, the sky over Liamos offered no hope.

The sun rose as if reluctant, obscured by the thick fog of smoke and soot hanging heavily in the air. The clock read 07:12, but the sky looked more like a grim dusk. The yellowish light that should have warmed the morning now wearily reflected off shattered glass and pools of blood still wet on the city asphalt.

The IF-143 helicopter streaked across the sky among a swarm of other flying iron—combat, medical, and logistics choppers buzzing like panicked bees. The air traffic was so dense that each pilot seemed to be gambling more with luck than navigation skill. The whir of rotors sliced endlessly through the air, mingling with overlapping emergency radio shrieks.

Below, Liamos presented itself as a city crying out in its death throes.

From behind the cockpit glass, Otto Krüger stared downward in silence.

Thousands of people no longer lived as humans.
And those still alive… were merely shadows refusing to die.

On the streets, a small family ran from the relentless wave of death chasing them. A middle-aged man carried his child, shouting for help as he limped on a wounded leg, blood flowing freely. On a high-rise rooftop, a mother hugged her two children while waving a red flare. A single medical chopper dove slowly toward them, flanked by two gunships on either side, their automatic rifles blazing to hold back the climbing undead on the fire escape below.

Not far off, a large IF logistics helicopter—bearing the faint Weltenschild emblem on its side—hauled a chunk of concrete wall with steel-sling cables that groaned under the load. That unit was headed for the eastern front—the once-proud defense post now reduced to rubble and dust. They were racing to establish an emergency perimeter, though everyone knew it was merely a postponement.

Some were still trying to save lives.
Some had not yet given up.

But not all were so lucky. An apartment building crumbled just as a second evacuation chopper was about to land. From afar, flames burst forth in a blinding flash and concrete fragments rained down onto the street. Otto turned his head away, yet the screams captured in his radio headset echoed in his mind.

“Gott…” Friedrich muttered beside him, eyes wide in horror. “We… we’re too late…”

Their helicopter narrowly avoided colliding with another medical chopper that suddenly veered into its path. A collision warning blinked on the cockpit panel. Pilot and systems operator shouted over each other. Liamos’s sky was now filled with not only smoke, but panic.

An IF gunship dove downward, dropping two tether lines onto the supermarket ruins. Three survivors, battered and dust-coated but eyes still bright with hope, were hoisted to safety by crew wearing harnesses.

Meanwhile, the explosions never truly ceased. Flashes of heavy weapons, aerial bombardment from F-16s, and columns of flame in the distance painted a defense line that was slowly eroding.

“Hey Otto!” Friedrich called, forcing a thin smile. “You promised not to blow us up again, right? This time we won’t be as lucky as last.”

Otto glanced at him, expression flat. “Hah… I’m no longer the clumsy recruit I used to be.”

“Heh… just wanted to make sure we don’t end up as remains dug out of rubble.”

“Cut the jokes!” Gruppenführer Bauer barked from the front seat. His voice was heavy, sharp—though the strain in his breathing betrayed his tension.

Suddenly, the cabin fell silent again, engulfed by the world’s convulsions outside.

“Attention all IF units—large wave detected moving toward the northern defenses. I repeat, heavy masses advancing on the north sector. All teams prepare for intense pressure.” The radio cut through the hush, harsh, piercing, suffocating.

Otto clenched his fist, jaw tightening.

“Damn… the situation’s worse than we thought,” he said quietly.

“Stay calm,” Bauer replied without looking back. “We’ll reach the landing zone soon. Follow protocol. Don’t let fear kill you before the zombies do.”

Otto nodded—to himself more than anyone else. “Yes, Gruppenführer…”

In the distance, the landing site came into view: a still-alive battlefield.

They prepared to disembark—not just into battle, but into the deepest part of a human tragedy no one wanted to witness… yet could not turn away from.

Dawn hadn’t fully broken when Trupp 9 gathered at the edge of the helipad. In the front row, Beur—as team leader—slightly bowed his head, his stance firm yet calm.

Moments later, an officer of rank Ia stepped forward. In a loud but measured voice, Ia gave a formal salute:

"salute sir...!!"

“salute, Trupp 9!”

Beur quickly returned the salute, his eyes never leaving the officer’s every move. Slowly he pulled out a tablet, its small screen displaying a map of the city dotted with blinking red points.

“An emergency signal has been detected in the city square that used to serve as a temporary refuge center. That location is now empty, abandoned in haste due to mishandling by local personnel, and it seems some were left behind. I want you to enter and evacuate as many survivors as possible.”

A cold wind carried dust from the rubble, creating a momentary hush. Trupp 9 simply nodded, absorbing every word.

“You only have until 11:00. After that, I’ll be forced to withdraw supporting forces—a massive horde of zombies will sweep through this area, and we won’t be able to hold out.”

His gaze swept through the remaining haze of smoke. His face remained resolute, but the look in his eyes betrayed his concern.

“You are their only hope. We trust in Trupp 9’s abilities. May God be with you.”

With those words, he turned without looking back. Trupp 9—led by Beur—adjusted their weapon positions, their chests rising and falling as they held their breath. Without a single question, they moved forward through the mist, toward the silent city square where hope and horror awaited.

The roar of the armored vehicle’s engine echoed along Liamos’s shattered streets, claustrophobic in its intensity. Its steel tracks shredded the cracked asphalt, hurling clouds of dust into the air and momentarily blinding all inside. The vehicle moved cautiously but swiftly—headed for the city square, the next objective in their mission.

Along the way, IF personnel in urban camo with bright blue accents held positions at the roadside. They wore camo t-shirts with blue highlights, black armored vests, camo pants, and light gray gloves, topped with rusted blue combat helmets that bore the scars of many battles. They repelled small pockets of zombies with precise gunfire while the armored vehicle pressed on, crushing anything that got too close.

A few refugees hurried through emergency evacuation lanes, guided by reserve units. Though sporadic undead still appeared, the massive horde that usually struck like a flood had yet to arrive. Still, an uneasy premonition hung in the air.

Blood splatters from zombies smashed under the tracks spattered the vehicle’s windows, adding to the weight of dread among those inside.

“We must reach the destination soon,” Otto muttered, eyes scanning shadows in the distance.

“We will, Otto. Hang on a bit longer,” Friedrich replied calmly, though his face bore the same steely focus on what awaited them.

When the armored door finally opened, a hot, toxic wind hit them all at once. The stench of charred flesh, blood, and sweat assaulted their senses in a single punishing breath. Smoke still choked the remnants of buildings around the square. This place, once the heart of life, now lay in silent ruins, inhabited only by the muted screams and groans of the living dead.

Hundreds of zombies scattered around, not densely packed—but enough to mentally wear down whoever stepped into the square. They didn’t move in major formations. Not yet. Their behavior showed something—or someone—had drawn their attention to this center. There was time before the main wave arrived.

Beur disembarked first, posture erect and commanding, eyes coldly sweeping the field. He gave a quick hand signal. No words were needed. In seconds, formation was set.

“Rausch, take the upper-right sniper position. You and Hartmann cover the west flank—secure the open sector,” Beur ordered in a low, clear voice.

“Verstanden!” answered Obergefreiter Dieter Rausch, moving with Gefreiter Emil Hartmann to slip behind wall rubble and establish their tactical posts.

Otto and Friedrich followed, heading swiftly to the north side, fully geared. Not far behind them, Sanitäterin Ilse Neumann joined Panzerbrecher Erik Vogel—laying out med-kits and supplies at a safe point. Ilse double-checked her medical pack while glancing at a zombie corpse near the collapsed quarantine post.

“If you fall, I won’t be carrying you,” she half-joked.

“If I fall, make sure I’m not taking an anti-tank grenade with me,” Erik replied with a short laugh, though his vigilance remained.

Over on the comms, Funker Tobias Keller powered up his device, trying to reconnect with Weltenschild—the IF carrier off the western coast. His voice crackled faintly through his helmet speakers.

“Still interference… central command link is partially down. But I got the last satellite feed—big movement from the southeast,” he reported.

Techniker Franz Jäger and Pionier Otto Weiss worked on salvaged IF vehicle parts nearby. They raced to retrofit them into makeshift shields.

“If this thing blows, at least three zombies go with me,” Franz muttered as he tightened the final bolt.

“More than enough for a perfect score, eh?” Otto Weiss replied, eyes on his mine detector.

Behind the line, Nachschuboffizier Karla Stein ensured ammunition was evenly distributed. She moved swiftly but methodically, handing out extra magazines and supplies to each unit without much chatter.

Otto Krüger paused, eyes fixed on the far end of the square, shrouded in smoke. He felt a tension radiating from the ground itself—like this city hadn’t finished revealing its horrors.

“Still too quiet…” he murmured.

“Because the storm hasn’t broken yet,” Friedrich replied softly, cocking his weapon.

The atmosphere felt like a held breath before a scream. No backup forces. No engine noises beyond their own. Trupp 9 was completely isolated now.

Trupp 9 spread into a tight circular perimeter, using debris and vehicle wreckage for cover. Some began to advance slowly, sweeping the blood-strewn streets. The open square gave clear sightlines but left them exposed.

Friedrich raised his hand, signaling leftwards. “Three moving from the nine o’clock direction.”

These zombies seemed more intact than those in the eastern sector. Some still wore full military gear—ballistic vests absorbing small arms fire without flinching.

“Bulletproof…” Erik Vogel muttered as a round pinged off a marine zombie’s vest. “Aim for the head. Forget the torso.”

They continued firing with cold precision, but everything changed when another figure shuffled into view—a hulking zombie in a tattered yellow suit with a partially charred red helmet. A cracked SCBA mask clung to its face, and its old oxygen tank rattled as it lurched forward.

“Feuerwehrmann?” Dieter Rausch raised an eyebrow.

Erik shot at its chest—two rounds punched through. The zombie collapsed… then lay still. A faint hiss of leaking oxygen and the scent of scorching fabric lingered.

Bruno exchanged a glance with Ilse, holding his breath. “Huh… thought he’d explode.”

But from the right flank, another firefighter zombie staggered in. It ran unsteadily before snagging on an emergency tent support. Emil Hartmann, at point, fired twice into its torso.

BLAM!

A sharp explosion rocked the square. Flames licked at the surrounding rags, and metal shards flew through the air. Emil staggered, his shoulder flung backward, nearly toppling.

“VERDAMMT! WHAT WAS THAT?!” he shouted.

Otto dove behind a broken iron fence. “Damn… they can explode?!”

“There’s a tank on their back!” Ilse yelled, pointing at the smoldering wreckage. “Oxygen. Hit with HE rounds and they blow.”

Friedrich quickly surveyed the squad. “Don’t fire at the torso. Aim away from the back if you see a tank. Use targeted shots—knees, head!”

“But the last one didn’t blow,” Erik said as he reloaded. “Why this one—?”

“Maybe the pressure was still high. Or you hit exactly the tank when it ruptured,” Ilse answered, ever vigilant. “Either way, don’t take the risk.”

Trupp 9 adjusted tactics at once. What remained was only the thunder of gunfire and the echoing footsteps dancing in chaos. The fusillade and the undead’s cries continued to roar through the city square. Trupp 9 held fast amid a storm of blood and dust, unleashing bullets without pause. As smoke swallowed their vision and the final blast shook the ground, Otto realized—this was no longer about winning. It was about holding on… until their turn came.

(pls leave a comment if you like it or have a sugestion and critic"