The Nation Collection One

The jeep bumped over a pile of rubble, jarring them violently. Marco hissed in pain. Bear pulled over, cutting the engine. The sudden silence was deafening, broken only by the distant cries of the infected. They needed to check on Sarah.

Carefully, Bear and Beth examined Sarah's injuries. Her pulse was weak, but she was still alive. A deep gash on her leg pulsed ominously. Infection was a constant threat, a creeping shadow lurking behind every injury. They cleaned the wound as best they could with some leftover antiseptic wipes and wrapped it tightly with whatever clean material they could scavenge from their supplies. The situation was precarious, every injury a roll of the dice against the inevitable.

As they tended to Sarah, a low growl echoed from a nearby alleyway. The growl was different. It was intelligent, tactical, not the mindless roar of a typical infected. It was a deliberate sound, planned. Bear grabbed his axe. Beth raised her rifle. Marco struggled to reach for his shotgun, despite his injured arm. The air crackled with tension, the unspoken fear hanging heavy between them.

The alley was dark and narrow, its entrance choked with twisted metal and broken concrete. Bear crept forward, Beth and Marco close behind. The smell of decay was stronger here, almost suffocating, mingling with the metallic tang of blood. They moved slowly, cautiously, each step measured and deliberate. They were in the heart of the infected's territory now, and the sense of vulnerability was palpable.

As they rounded a corner, they saw it: a group of infected unlike any they had ever encountered before. These were organized, almost disciplined. They weren't simply shambling corpses; they were strategists, hunters. They moved with an eerie coordination, their attacks calculated and precise. They were using the environment to their advantage, using the shadows and the rubble to ambush their prey. There were at least a dozen of them, surrounding a makeshift barricade made of broken furniture and scraps of metal. Their collective growl was like the guttural rumble of an approaching storm.