Inside, four Russian soldiers were cornered—poorly armed, fear etched across their faces.
One of them held an AK-74U, but his hands were trembling.
They didn't stand a chance.
Ryan didn't wait for orders. His M4 roared, spitting out three precise shots.
The first Russian dropped to his knees, blood gushing from his neck as he desperately tried to stop the bleeding.
The others tried to react, but Richard had already raised his weapon, firing without hesitation.
A burst tore through the chest of the second soldier, who staggered backward before slamming into the wall. His body slid down slowly, leaving a dark streak on the rusted metal.
The third managed to raise his pistol, but before he could pull the trigger, Lee fired a round into his forehead.
His skull burst in a cloud of blood and bone, and he crumpled like a sack of meat.
The last one—a young man with wide, terrified eyes—dropped his weapon and raised his hands, pleading in Russian.
"Пожалуйста... не надо..." (Please... don't...)
"No mercy," I muttered, pulling the trigger.
The bullet punched through his skull, sending his body flying backward like a broken doll.
Silence filled the room.
Without wasting another second, we moved on.
We stepped out and closed the door behind us.
The hallway stretched ahead. Flickering lights only added to the tension.
We kept moving, every door a potential threat.
Some rooms were empty—just overturned tables and the thick stench of mold hanging in the air.
Others housed zombies lunging with hungry groans, their decaying bodies swaying grotesquely.
Gunfire echoed through the tight spaces as we cleared them one by one.
Heads exploded, blood and brain matter splattering the walls.
In a few rooms, Russian soldiers tried to hide—but there was no escape.
We kicked doors open and shot anything that moved.
Some tried to fight back, fumbling for their weapons with shaking hands, but they were gunned down before they could aim.
Others begged for their lives, but mercy wasn't part of the mission.
Each enemy soldier fell into pools of blood, their eyes frozen in death's stare.
After a relentless series of firefights, we stumbled upon an ammo room.
"Shit, finally something useful," Ryan muttered, grabbing a mag from the shelf.
We rushed in and shut the door behind us.
Our mags were nearly dry, so we reloaded in silence, the metallic clicks of rounds sliding into place filling the room.
We took a moment to drink water.
Exhaustion pressed down on them like a slab of concrete.
Sweat dripped, their clothes soaked, the stench of gunpowder and blood thick in the air.
But we couldn't stop—not until we were out of this hell.
Five minutes later, reloaded and ready, we moved on.
Only two doors remained.
The first led to a supply room—broken radios, abandoned vests, and empty crates filled the space.
No threats inside.
The second looked like an old dormitory.
But something felt wrong.
The door was slightly ajar, and a faint moan came from within.
I stepped closer and pushed it gently.
It was a small room with bunk beds and metal lockers.
And in the center, her back to us, was a woman.
Her filthy hair covered her face as she swayed slowly.
I knew what she was before she even turned.
Her pale eyes and twisted mouth opened in a guttural snarl.
One clean shot to the skull was enough to end her.
I exhaled heavily.
"Let's get the hell out of here."
At last, we reached the end of the hallway.
A set of double metal doors.
I stepped up to the small window and peeked inside.