The symbol painted on their sides gleamed faintly in the sunlight, though none of the men recognized it.
Ross looked up once, his eyes narrowing slightly. Then he gave a subtle nod. That was all it took.
Without a single shouted command, the convoy began its retreat.
The twenty-four armored trucks reversed formation, moving in perfect coordination as they fell back toward the bunker.
It was a slow, disciplined withdrawal—no chaos, no hesitation. They fired as they moved, cutting down the horde that followed in their wake.
The zombies came like a tidal wave, unending, desperate.
They tripped and climbed over their own dead, howling mindlessly as they chased the retreating vehicles.
But flesh could not match steel, and their bodies exploded into gore beneath the merciless hail of bullets.
Heads burst like melons; torsos were torn apart until the horde looked less like a threat and more like a sea of shredded meat.
