the blood vessel of the dead city

Gunfire began to stutter—not because the threat had passed, but because every bullet was now fired with intention. Trupp 9 moved in unison, covering each other's flanks as they swept through the wreckage of vehicles, scorched park benches, and the remains of medical tents now charred and soaked in blood.

A few zombies still wandered the narrow alleys leading to the plaza. Most moved sluggishly, their bodies partially charred, some with bones jutting out from torn flesh.

Friedrich led a small squad toward the eastern side. “Left’s clear. Center—wait... movement behind the cart.”

A zombie in a marine uniform slowly emerged, its helmet cracked in half but still clinging to its head. A single precise shot from Otto struck just beneath its chin—the body slumped motionless, black blood seeping from its neck.

On the western side, Bruno and Ilse swept through the rubble.

“This one’s just a corpse,” Ilse said, touching the motionless body. “Not one of the risers.”
Bruno narrowed his eyes. “You sure? Let’s not have another East Sector incident...”
The body remained still. Only flies and dried blood clung to it.

Beur approached from the center of the plaza, his helmet now marked with black scratches.
“Perimeter status?”

“Alpha team’s clear,” Friedrich replied. “Beta reports the last two contacts have been neutralized. One zombie firefighter had to be bayoneted. Explosion risk was too high.”

Beur gave a silent nod, pausing as his eyes scanned the plaza—once an open space for the people of Liamos, now little more than a mass grave waiting to be buried.

Suddenly, from the south, came the sound of metal scraping. Rifles were raised in unison.
But it was only a skinny, filthy dog, dragging a chain from its neck as it ran, disappearing behind a building.

Everyone exhaled slowly. Knowing they were still alive—and that, at the very least, something else out there was too.

Otto checked his ammunition. “Thirteen rounds left, with two spare magazines.”
Friedrich wiped his helmet. “I think we need some rest—and a bit of time to breathe,” he said, leaning slightly on his weapon.

Beur studied the map he pulled from his chest pocket. “If this sector’s secure...” He looked up, eyes fixed on the entrance to the subway station in the southwest corner of the plaza, half-buried under debris. “We’ll check that location next. There might still be survivors down there.”

Some of the squad began rearming, pulling back charging handles, double-checking their ammo.
The sky was starting to pale along the eastern edge. Smoke still rose from several smoldering fires. The stench of char and blood wasn’t as sharp as before—but not because it had faded. They had simply grown used to it.

Liamos remained silent. But the silence here wasn’t peace—it was a pause between unanswered questions.

Without needing further orders, Trupp 9 moved toward the southwest edge of the plaza. Their steps were steady, blending with the crunch of shattered debris beneath their combat boots—occasionally punctuated by the soft clink of spent shells underfoot.

Smoke from the battle hung low, blurring the holes pockmarking the foundations of concrete buildings. The remnants of a subway station—once part of the official evacuation routes when the emergency was declared.
Now, little more than a doorway into the forgotten guts of the city.

A narrow staircase welcomed them into the darkness. Emergency lights still flickered—slow and faint, like the dying breaths of a failing system. The walls were damp, paint peeling, and the faint scent of burnt wiring still lingered in the air.

Their footsteps echoed down the narrow corridor leading toward the platform. Every sound came twice—once from their boots, and once from the shadows that trailed them.

As they entered the open platform area, metal benches still stood, some tilted at odd angles. At the far end of the platform, a heavy steel door hung half-open, marked “MAINTENANCE AREA – STAFF ONLY,” with a gaping, unlit corridor yawning beside it.
The rusted metal door swayed gently, its hinges groaning in a low, drawn-out whine.

“But the door... it’s only half-shut,” Erik muttered. “Could be a trap. Or just not fully opened.”
Ilse stepped forward, her rifle sweeping the corners. “No movement. Still...”
Tobias glanced at his scanner. “Zero signals. But... this deep underground, it's expected to have no radio reception—especially with the world as it is now. If anyone’s down here, they’re definitely cut off from the outside.”
Dieter checked his grenades. Said nothing.
Erik tapped the door’s edge with the butt of his weapon. Franz pressed a measuring device against one of the panels.
“Structure’s intact. No trace of an explosion. But the hinge is jammed.”
Beur turned. “Defensive formation. Weiss, Albrecht, assist Vogel with a manual breach. Neumann, prep for triage. Minimal loadout.”

Otto stood to Friedrich’s left, eyes fixed on the darkness hanging like vapor.
“If anyone’s still alive...” he murmured.
“...make sure they’re still sane—and not something trying to live after dying.”

Without waiting for orders, Vogel lunged forward. His shoulder slammed into the steel door—the scrape echoed long and loud. He entered immediately, posture sharp, rifle sweeping the space.
“Clear,” he said—deep, flat voice.

Trupp 9 moved in swiftly, trained and seamless.
Silence. No bodies. No sounds.

At the far end of the room, another door. Smaller. Clearly marked above:
“CONTROL MAINTENANCE ROOM.”

The beam from a helmet-mounted flashlight swept across the metal door, marked with a faded label: Maintenance Control Room. Dust swirled as Beur pushed the lever—the hinges groaned like an old wound being forced open.

Instantly, five gun barrels rose.

The sharp light from rifle optics cut through the thick air beyond the door. A squad in desert camo, IF patches on their left sleeves—ready to fire.

“Hold your fire! We’re reinforcements—Trupp Neun, German branch!” Beur’s voice came muffled through his gas mask, but his authority remained unshaken.

A brief silence.

Then one of them slowly lowered his weapon—a middle-aged man with sharp features and a neatly trimmed beard. His movements were followed by his comrades.

“Lieutenant Fahd Al-Sayeed,” he said briefly, tapping his chest.
“This is my team: Captain Rafiq—communications. Sergeant Basim—marksman. Munir—technical. Zara—medic.”

Beur took a quiet breath through his filter, then let out a small laugh.
“So you’re a Lieutenant now, huh? Last time I saw you, you were still an amateur captain who couldn’t tell left from right on a compass.”

Fahd frowned, then laughed in amusement.
“Hah... By Allah, Beur. I didn’t think a stubborn bastard like you would still be alive. And still not dead, it seems. Didn’t I tell you... when you enter a room, say salaam first?”

Beur shrugged.
“Last time I did that, they responded with a burst of hot lead.”

Fahd grinned.
“Maybe it’s your face. Too intimidating. Or maybe you just look like a sleazy bastard.”

Light laughter echoed briefly. The air felt lighter for a moment, though not for long.

Beur nodded toward the side of the room.
“And them?”

Five others were visible in the corner of the room, three half-hidden behind a metal desk and stacks of emergency racks. They appeared to be civilians—faces filled with anxiety, eyes wide with fear. One of them, a man with glasses, sat with trembling hands. The other two, young women, clutched each other tightly.

But Beur’s attention was fixed on two others.

One stood tall in full firefighter gear—helmet, SCBA, and an axe gripped tightly in hand. His body was still, eyes focused as if waiting for the command to charge. Beside him, another firefighter, no mask, only in standard issue gear. A weathered military pack slung over his shoulder—likely scavenged from the battlefield against the dead.

Fahd glanced at them for a moment, then spoke quietly:
“The two firefighters... and the man with glasses in the back. They made it out from the infection center two days ago.”

He paused briefly, then added flatly:
“And those two women... they’re quite the lucky sisters.”
Beur looked at them one by one.
The flashlight beam swept across pale faces, cold sweat, and a thin flame of resolve flickering in their eyes. Beur squinted. His gaze locked onto a man in a firefighter uniform, standing tall at the far end of the room, his body imposing, with an axe crossed over his chest. His helmet was cracked on one side, but his stance remained unshaken.
“Name,” said Beur.
“Captain Cole,” replied the man calmly, his eyes still focused on the movement in the silent room.
Marcus, standing beside Beur, gave a slight nod. A faint smile formed on his face.
“Lieutenant Marcus Harlow,” he continued, his voice low but firm.

No one spoke for a few seconds.
Only the hum of old power from the wall panels and the sound of breath behind filtered masks remained.
Because behind those hallways... the faint sound of something scraping against metal began to rise again.

The sound came—grating metal dragging across the floor, slow, heavy, and ear-piercing.
KREEEEEENGK... KRAAAANG...
The headlamps of Trupp 9 and Lieutenant Sayeed’s team immediately pointed toward the source. The light struck a massive silhouette with staggering steps and an unnaturally inflated chest. A zombie marine—tall and muscular—was slowly walking toward them. His body still wore steel bulletproof armor, although the plates hung loosely, warped by the swelling flesh underneath. Every step dragged the steel charge baton he clutched, producing a grating trail of sound that vibrated through the concrete floor.

No one knew exactly what they were looking at, but every soldier’s instinct screamed the same thing—this was no ordinary zombie.
“Kontakt vorne! Öffnen Sie das Feuer!” shouted Beur, his sharp voice echoing off the low corridor ceiling.
A storm of bullets erupted from the weapons of Trupp 9 and Lieutenant Sayeed’s team.

Bang! Bang! Drrrat drrrat! TATATATAK!
Gunfire blended with the sparks of impact as rounds slammed into the zombie’s armor plating.

But the creature kept advancing.
The bullets only slowed him down, not stopped him. The torn-off steel plating clanged against the walls, releasing a sharp metallic shriek that caused some soldiers to step back instinctively. With a sudden swing, the zombie lashed his baton against the wall—blasting dust and debris toward the front line.
“Fall back! Back, back!” commands rang out, forcing IF troops to retreat step by step toward a wider position. The formation began to falter. The narrow corridor had become their weakness.

Then, two figures moved from the rear—Cole and Marcus.
Cole gripped his fire axe with both hands, his breathing heavy but controlled. Beside him, Marcus balanced his long pike pole with one hand, eyes narrowing toward a gap in the creature’s neck armor.
“We flank it from the left,” Marcus whispered.
“I’ll draw its attention,” Cole replied briefly.

They moved like a silent wave. As the monster swung its baton toward the frontline, Cole dashed from the opposite side, cleaving his axe into the creature’s leg.
Slash! THWACK!
Thick blood burst out, and the monster let out a low growl, spinning toward Cole.
Just then, Marcus lunged from the other side—his pike pole piercing straight into an open rib gap. With full force, he twisted the tool.

CRACK! SHUNK!
The crack of bones echoed, followed by the thud of a massive body losing balance.

The marine zombie stopped moving. Its vacant eyes flickered weakly—then the body collapsed onto the floor with a crushing thud.
THUD.

Silence settled. Only the sound of blood dripping and exhausted breathing remained.
The massive corpse now lay sprawled over old rail tracks, blocking the path that had moments ago been a death trap. Smoke from the gunpowder still lingered in the air, slowly blending with the stench of burnt flesh and old machine oil.

Cole took a deep breath, then rested his axe on his shoulder.
“…Please tell me this isn’t the smallest of its kind.”
Marcus, still holding the now blood-smeared pike pole, shook his head slowly.
“If this is the smallest version, I might start considering a new career as a corpse,” he said.

Beur stepped closer, signaling his troops to reform into a looser formation.
“Visual and tactical reports will be sent to command in two minutes. Whatever this is… it’s not a result of natural mutation.”
His voice was flat, but his eyes continued scanning the area carefully.

Lieutenant Sayeed approached from the right side, his helmet slightly tilted from an earlier hit. He pointed his weapon’s barrel at the monster’s body.
“You see the chest part? That’s standard marine armor from Liamos North Base. They were deployed two days ago.”
He paused, then added in a quieter tone, “…so this, could be one of them.”

One of the younger members of Trupp 9, Franz, raised his hand while glaring at the now-lifeless corpse.
“Uh, Herr Beur… for the record: I refuse to be the front line next time if these things show up again.”
Beur looked at him for a moment, expressionless, then…
“Noted. You’ll still be on the front line, Franz.”

A few short laughs escaped from the soldiers—quiet, but genuine. The atmosphere slowly began to lighten.
Cole turned to Marcus, raising an eyebrow.
“Y’know, if that marine zombie’s armor can tank bullets and a steel baton, we might wanna start selling this gear for kids’ birthday parties with an apocalypse theme.”
Marcus sighed, staring at the still-smoking corpse. “Funny. But please don’t give the government any ideas. They would auction off zombies weekly just to raise funds.”

Meanwhile, somewhere else…
“Achoo! …Verdammt… someone might’ve already heard about my business plan?”
“Sir, please don’t joke... no one else would come up with an idea as insane as yours. I’m amazed someone like you even exists.”

“Ja, maybe you’re right, Alice… haha…” he said, scratching the back of his neck with an expression that was part sheepish, part proud.