Screams echoed through the base, a mix of terror that sent chills down Zara's spine. The once-sterile hallways had become a nightmare—floors slick with blood, walls streaked with crimson handprints, bodies littering the ground. Some were motionless, their glassy eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. Others twitched, gurgling weakly as they succumbed to fatal wounds. The scent of iron and burning flesh thickened the air, nearly overpowering the chemical sting of the mist that now hung like a deathly shroud.
Zara pushed forward, her boots slipping on the blood-slicked tiles as she dodged panicked civilians and injured soldiers. A shriek rang out to her right—a young woman, barely out of her teens, scrambling backward on her hands and feet as an infected soldier lunged at her, his mouth snapping hungrily. His face was twisted and grotesque, his skin blotchy and gray, veins bulging like darkened roots under his flesh.
They're unstable.
