The size of the horde grew with each passing moment, drawn to the cacophony of chaos that was the fierce battle. Falcon had anticipated their arrival, believing he could use the mindless undead to divide Cobra's focus, forcing them to fight on multiple fronts. What Falcon hadn't counted on was the overwhelming ferocity and sheer volume of firepower that Cobra would bring to bear on his small team.
It was only through the unexpected arrival of a new ally, the powerful Autobot Powerglide, that the Joe team survived their inevitable slaughter. The towering hero soared onto the battlefield, unleashing his powerful canon and striking fear into the hearts of Cobra's forces. As they retreated in disarray, the Joes seized the opportunity to evacuate their most critically injured.
What was left of Falcon's team was now in tatters. The battlefield had transformed into a horrific tableau of blood soaked the earth, mingling with the remains of destroyed equipment and discarded weaponry. Creatures clawed across the dirt, creating a macabre carpet of undulating death.
In his head, the anguished cries of his team mixed with the haunting echoes of explosions and relentless gunfire. He had already lost the entire crew of the Little Bird, mercilessly shot down in the battle, as well as his sharp-eyed sniper. The Autobots had evacuated the wounded, leaving his small team to fend for themselves.
As Falcon braced himself for the next phase of the battle, a sense of loss washed over him like a chilling tide. The grim uncertainty surrounding the condition of the injured gnawed at him.
The nearest zombie lurked just ten feet away, its decaying features grotesque under the waning light; its eyes shrunken and dried like prunes, its skin cracked and gray, teeth cracked.
Falcon quickly slung his shotgun across his shoulder and drew his pistol. He raised the black Beretta, adrenaline coursing through his body. He took a steadying breath.
A thunderous crack split the air as the bullet tore through the zombie's skull. In an instant, the back of its head exploded in a dark blossom of gore, a gruesome mist of black spray painting the ground behind it as the ghoul collapsed lifelessly.
And just like that, the fight began. The repetitive crack of pistols and the thunderous blasts of rifles filled the air, a grim symphony singing to the newly departed.
Zombies surged forward, bones poking through the mottled skin of their outstretched fingers in hungry desperation, mouths agape, revealing blackened and jagged teeth waiting to sink into soft flesh. Some dragged themselves across the torn earth, and others shuffled and stumbled over the uneven terrain.
As each ghoul stepped up, they met the embrace of true death at the hands of the Joes.
"I'm out," Bowyer shouted, quickly holstering his empty pistol and switching to his trusty bow. His muscles tightened as he drew the bowstring. He calmed his breath with each inhale, his eyes narrowing on the shambling targets advancing on his group.
For Bowyer, time seemed to slow as he assessed the distance and erratic movements of the zombies; every detail of the ghouls came into sharp focus. With a silent prayer to the winds, he released the string. The bow sang a sweet note, a prelude to the end, as its razor-sharp arrow sliced through the air, each flying with deadly precision, striking their putrid targets with a whisper of killer intent.
For a moment, the fletching of the arrows fluttered before the ghouls fell, one after another, crumpling to the ground like marionettes with their strings cut. The rhythmic twang of the bowstring became a calming sound for Bowyer, a reassuring reminder that this was what he did best.
Jinx drew her sword, gripping the tsuka tightly, the blade glinting ominously as she lunged forward. She swung, feeling a comforting satisfaction as the blade sliced easily through the scalps of the decaying monsters.
Suddenly, she felt a sharp tug at her ankle. Looking down, her heart raced as she caught sight of a dragger, its grotesquely deformed face twisted in a grimace of hunger. Its distended jaws, lined with jagged teeth, were preparing to sink into her flesh. "Shit," she muttered under her breath. Without hesitation, she plunged her sword deep into the top of the dragger's head.
The momentum caused her sword to be lodged firmly in the ground. The blade stuck fast in the decaying creature. Jinx quickly steadied herself as she reached for her second sword, her fingers deftly finding the hilt.
Smith's revolvers clicked as the cylinders spun empty, first one, then the other. She had drained her bolt action rifle of ammo during the fight with Cobra. She quickly reached down to her ankle, retrieving her knife, which Forge had made for her.
Seeing him leave the battlefield bloodied and in pain fueled her rage. She seized the nearest zombie, her grip tightening around its decaying throat, the dried flesh rough beneath her fingers. With a primal scream, she drove the blade deep into the side of its head, her breath catching as the point plunged through bone and brain.
Ground tightened his grip on his katana. Streaks of dirt and sweat marred his face, tracing the paths carved by his tears. The thought of losing Pound, his most trusted partner, after all this time threatened to shatter his heart. The bond they shared was forged in the fire of the apocalypse. The loss pressed heavily on his soul as he fought on. He raged against the undead, his guttural shouting turning into a deep growl. Each swing of his blade easily sliced through the undead.
Every firearm Scrounge had carried fired dry: AK47, shotgun, numerous pistols, even weapons he had scavenged from the battlefield, all worthless. Leaving him his Kukri. He removed his cloak, tossing it at an approaching zombie. Wrapped in the heavy garment, the creature tripped, allowing Scrounge to chop the Kukri deep in its skull.
Dialtone and Firewall moved back to back, ensuring their safety from either side.
Despite being used to air combat, Grand Slam found his footing and repeatedly hit his mark as he dispatched the zombies.
Sneak Peek picked each target and eliminated it as a threat. He shakes his head clear from the haunting memories of his journey from the Amazon Basin to the United States as his blade sinks into another shambling corpse.
Time seemed to stand still as if frozen in the grip of the Grim Reaper.
"Keep moving!" Falcon shouted over the sounds of the groaning undead.
For every zombie dispatched, it seemed like two more lurched forward in its place.
The Joe's strained grunts mixed with the undead's chilling groans, creating a hideous soundtrack of the ZomPoc.
Then they heard it, the sound of roaring engines. Beachcomber and Bumble Bee sped headlong into the fray, bodies falling under their tires with sickening thumps.
Bumble Bee skids to a halt, and his doors pop open, "Get in."
"Go! Go! Go!" Falcon ushers his people into the waiting safety of Bumble Bee's interior.
Smith, Ground, Dialtone, Firewall, and Grand Slam scrambled into the tight space, their bodies pressing together as the doors slammed shut, sealing them from further attack.
Falcon, Bowyer, Scrounge, Sneak Peek, and Jinx climb aboard Beachcomber, Scrounge, Sneak Peek, and Jinx clinging to the roll cage, hearts racing.
With a roar, Beachcomber and Bumble Bee's wheels churned, sending gravel and dirt flying through the air.
Beachcomber shouts, "Hold on!"
The two Autobots race from the scene, Bumble Bee's occupants huddled together yet out of harm's way, safely covered by his protective shell. While Beachcomber hurtled forward, his riders were on high alert. The open roll cage offered little protection.
The ride takes them quickly out of danger's grasp, the knurled tires of Beachcomber and Bumble Bee gripping the dirt road. The road speeds under them, each rapid turn and acceleration taking them further from the threat. The scenery whizzes by in a blur as the Autobots focus on delivering the Joes to the Forward Operating Base.
As they arrive at the FOB, exhaustion fights to take over. The weight of fatigue clings to their limbs, causing them to drag their bodies like the undead.
"Get in here! I need more hands!" Bulleit's voice cuts through their haze of weariness, immediately grabbing their attention. Instantly, a fresh wave of adrenaline courses through their bodies, energizing their tired muscles and sharpening their senses.
The floor is slick with blood as the Joes run in to offer assistance. The horror of the battle lay in front of them.
Forge lies motionless on a cold, metallic table, the overhead light casting harsh shadows across his face. His body is splayed, limbs slightly askew, deep in unconsciousness, lost to the hectic world around him.
Greaser lets out a crying scream from excruciating pain as Bulleit's hands, covered in blood, desperately search for the source of her abdominal bleeding.
On the hard concrete floor, tightly wound tourniquets constrict the blood flow to Throttle's left arm and right leg. Drifter leans over her, worry written on his face, as he rhythmically administers chest compressions. Each push a desperate attempt to coax life back into her unresponsive form.
Tucked in the corner, a white sheet conceals a small lifeless form, dark fresh stains mar the fabric. The unmistakable tip of Pound's tail, black with a point of white, sticks out from beneath the shroud.
"Falcon! Get over here," Bulleit calls out, "Hold her hand."
Falcon reaches for Greaser's hand. She clamps down on his fingers like too-tight vice grips. Her shrill screams echoed off the walls inside the room.
"I got it," Bulleit's blood-slick hands reach for a clamp, quickly applying it to the severed iliac artery.
Greaser's grip on Falcon's hand goes limp, and he looks at Bulleit. She wipes the back of her wrist across her forehead, leaving behind a crimson streak, "She passed out."
Bulleit swiftly removes her blood-soaked gloves, throwing them into the trashcan nestled in the corner. After a brief moment to steady her breath, she dons a fresh pair. She turns her attention to Throttle. Ground had taken over the chest compressions, desperation driving him despite his own pain and loss.
She kneels across from him. Ground stops momentarily; Ground Bulleit searches for a pulse.
A moment later, Bulleit feels it, a weak fluttering beat beneath her fingertips, "She's got a pulse," she looks up at Ground and sees the relief wash over him. "It's faint, but it's there."
The hours pass in a haze as Bulleit works on one patient at a time,
She calls out orders to the others acting as combat medics and aides as they hurry in and out of the cramped space, retrieving supplies, applying pressure, and running IVs. Bulleit's eyes dart from patient to patient, praying not to miss anything. Hoping that she is as good as she thinks she is.
She has already lost one patient; she cannot lose another.
The sun sets on the horizon, casting a dreary red light across the land, the light filtering in through the room's single window, "Get more lights in here!" Bulleit orders.
Battle weariness begins to catch up with Bulleit and the other survivors, their wounds cleaned and dressed between patient checks.
The clock ticks late into the night when Bulleit finally collapses into a chair, her body trembling from exhaustion. Beads of sweat trickle down her forehead, mingling with smudges of blood and tears.
Falcon draws up a chair beside her. Sitting, he leans in, his voice a low, reassuring murmur, "You did well."
Bulleit lifts her gaze, her eyes shadowed with fatigue and pain that cuts deeper than just the physical, "It's a miracle I was able to stabilize them," she replies, her voice solemn with disbelief. Her eyes lock onto Falcon, "The worst is yet to come," her shoulders slump, "I don't have the resources I need to keep them alive."
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