Riku's hands trembled as he tore the last belt of ammo dry. The M249 clicked hollow, smoke curling off its overheated barrel. The street was a butcher's floor—piles of mangled corpses, severed limbs, and black blood steaming in the late-afternoon air. The horde had thinned, but more groans echoed in the distance.
He spat blood onto the asphalt and staggered back to the Rezvani. The SUV leaned crooked against the wreckage of the storefront, its hood crushed inward, its windshield fractured into a spider's nest of cracks.
"Come on… you're not done yet," Riku muttered, dragging the M249 with him. He shoved the heavy weapon into the back seat, ammo belts clattering after it. Then he hauled himself into the driver's side, ribs screaming with every movement.
The cabin smelled of oil, smoke, and blood. He slammed a hand against the ignition switch. The engine coughed, choked, and died.
"No, no, no—" He hit it again.
