The Last Marine

"Tell us where you need us," Quinn said, his voice cutting through the rising panic.

Lena’s gaze was sharp, her focus absolute. "The west wall. They’ve breached the outer brick. They’ll be through the drywall in minutes. That hallway leads directly to the pediatric wing where we’re keeping the other children." She pointed to a burly man with a makeshift shield crafted from a stop sign. "Marcus will show you."

"Let’s go," Quinn said to Hex, not wasting another second.

Marcus led them at a run through a series of chaotic hallways. The sounds of the assault grew louder—a thunderous, rhythmic pounding mixed with the high-pitched snarls of the horde. They reached a long, narrow corridor. At the far end, a section of the wall was visibly bowing inward, plaster dust raining down as dozens of fists hammered against it from the other side. A small group of five defenders stood ready, armed with pipes and knives, their faces pale with grim determination.

Quinn took in the scene at a glance. The defenders were clustered together, a single line of defense. It was a fatal flaw.

"You, you, and you," he said, pointing to three of the defenders, his voice radiating an authority they instinctively obeyed. "Spread out. Back ten feet. Create a kill zone. Don’t let them get past the doorway. We’ll hold the breach."

He and Hex took up a position on either side of the crumbling wall. Quinn gripped his axe, planting his feet. Hex chambered a fresh shell, his shotgun held at the low ready. Their presence, their calm professionalism, had an immediate effect on the other defenders. The panic in their eyes was replaced by a sliver of hope. They were no longer just a terrified mob; they were a unit with a plan.

The wall exploded inward.

A shower of drywall, insulation, and splintered wood erupted into the hallway. The first of the infected poured through the ragged hole, its eyes white and manic. Hex’s shotgun roared, and the creature’s head dissolved in a red mist.