The garage's side gate was ajar, swaying slightly under the cold night wind.
Rust creaked softly, an almost imperceptible sound amid the chaos in the background.
The acrid scent of diesel oil and gunpowder filled the air, burning my nostrils as I observed the movement inside the warehouse.
Gunfire echoed in the distance, mingling with muffled screams in Russian—the confusion had already taken over the place before we even arrived.
Inside the warehouse, a Russian soldier emerged in a rush, his breath ragged and eyes wide with sheer terror.
His uniform, stained with blood and soot, trembled along with the hands gripping an AK-74U.
His nervous finger on the trigger betrayed his desperation—he had no idea what awaited him.
I took advantage of the darkness and the element of surprise.
Moving with lethal precision, I advanced silently and, in a single fluid motion, drew my katana.
The black blade gleamed under the pale light as it sliced through the air, whistling like a silent thunderbolt.
The strike was perfect.
The soldier's head separated from his body with a clean cut, spinning in the air.
His eyes, still frozen in absolute fear, stared into the void before hitting the concrete floor with a dull thud.
The body followed shortly after, collapsing like a ragdoll, spilling warm, viscous blood across the ground.
"Let's go," I murmured, wiping the blade on the dead man's uniform before sheathing it again.
Ryan and Richard advanced beside me, weapons raised, alert to any movement.
I signaled with my hand, and we moved stealthily through the back of the garage, using the shadows as our allies.
Then, the true hell revealed itself before us.
The garage was a massive warehouse, supported by steel beams and dimly lit by flickering fluorescent lamps—the place was in absolute chaos.
Military vehicles—BTR armored personnel carriers, supply trucks, and a few UAZs—had been abandoned in a hurry, some still running, their headlights casting beams of light over the disaster.
At the far end of the warehouse, a platoon of Russian soldiers was entrenched, firing frantically at an advancing horde of infected.
The dead pressed forward relentlessly, unfazed by the bullets piercing their torsos.
The floor was littered with spent shell casings, corpses, and thick, black pools of blood.
"Our objective is to get to the other side of the garage," I murmured into the radio. "We'll use the chaos and eliminate only when necessary."
We moved with surgical precision between the vehicles, using every blind spot to our advantage.
My M4A1, fitted with a suppressor, whispered death discreetly—each shot was a lethal whisper.
A Russian soldier was reloading behind a UAZ.
Before he could notice my presence, I pulled the trigger. The bullet pierced his temple, and he collapsed without making a sound.
Another Russian, further ahead, was trying to communicate over the radio.
I took aim and fired—the round punched a clean hole through his forehead, his head snapping back before his body slumped lifelessly.
In a matter of seconds, several enemies had been erased from existence.
But then, all hell broke loose.
A wounded soldier, lying near a container, spotted us.
Six men in black uniforms, fully equipped—the first one carrying a katana on his back and wearing a sinister ghost mask.
He knew we were intruders.