Sergeant De Vera's hands trembled violently as he fumbled to reload his weapon, his fingers slick with blood and sweat. His vision blurred, not just from the sweat stinging his eyes, but from the relentless stream of tears coursing down his face. The stadium, once a sanctuary of hope, had morphed into a grotesque arena of death and despair. The infected were everywhere, their guttural, inhuman moans merging with the screams of the unturned in a symphony of horror that gnawed at De Vera's sanity.
De Vera's heart felt like it was being torn apart with every shot he fired. He had been trained for war, but nothing could have prepared him for this living nightmare. Each squeeze of the trigger was a fresh wound to his soul, each bullet a dagger of guilt. He couldn't stop. He had to protect those who were still clinging to life, even if it meant shattering his own humanity in the process.
"God forgive me," he whispered, his voice cracking like fragile glass. His eyes locked onto a woman—a mother, once full of life and love—now a hollow shell with eyes void of humanity. He aimed and fired, the gunshot echoing in the cavernous stadium, and she crumpled to the ground like a puppet with its strings severed. His vision swam, nausea and terror threatening to overwhelm him.
He glanced over and saw one of his men, Corporal Davis, writhing on the ground in violent spasms. The virus had claimed him too. De Vera's breath caught in his throat as he aimed his weapon, his hands trembling uncontrollably. "I'm sorry," he choked out, his voice barely audible over the din. With a thunderous bang, Davis's suffering ended, but De Vera's torment deepened.
The weight of his actions pressed down on him like a physical force, threatening to crush his very spirit. He had sworn to protect these people, and now he was ending their lives. Desperation clawed at his chest, an insidious force that threatened to consume him entirely. But he couldn't stop. He had to keep going.
"Get back! Everyone, get back!" he shouted, his voice raw and edged with desperation. The crowd was a chaotic sea of panic, bodies surging and colliding in a frantic bid for escape. De Vera's eyes darted around, searching for any semblance of order amidst the bedlam, but there was none.
A horde of infected broke through the frenzied crowd, their eyes glazed with a predatory hunger. De Vera's heart thundered in his chest as he raised his weapon, firing shot after shot. The infected dropped, their bodies hitting the ground with sickening thuds, each impact a reminder of the life extinguished. Each shot reverberated in his mind, a haunting testament to the lives he was forced to take.
"Stay back!" he screamed, his voice cracking under the strain. The infected were relentless, an unstoppable tide of death. De Vera's ammo was dwindling, and he knew he couldn't hold them off forever. Panic surged through him, and he felt his grip on sanity slipping away.
"Why? Why is this happening?" he cried out, his voice drowned by the cacophony. He fired again, and another infected fell. Tears blurred his vision, but he kept shooting, kept fighting. He had to protect the living, no matter the cost.
The infected closed in, their grotesque faces contorted in hunger and rage. De Vera's resolve hardened into something primal. He would not let them win. With a guttural scream, he unleashed a final barrage of bullets, each one fueled by his anguish and desperation.
The infected fell, one by one, but more kept coming. De Vera's ammo ran dry, and he switched to his sidearm, his hands slick with sweat and blood. He kept firing, kept fighting, driven by a primal instinct to survive.
"Come on, you bastards!" he shouted, his voice hoarse and ragged. "I'll take you all down!"
The infected swarmed him, and De Vera fought with everything he had. His vision blurred, his strength waning, but he refused to give up. He would fight until his last breath, for the people he had sworn to protect. As the infected closed in, De Vera's thoughts turned to his family, to the faces of those he had lost. He would not let their memory be tarnished by this nightmare. With a final, desperate cry, he fired his last shot, and the world around him dissolved into darkness.
Just as Sergeant De Vera thought he had a moment to breathe, a small, infected child lunged at him with the ferocity of a wild animal. He stumbled backward, his rifle slipping from his grasp and clattering to the ground. Frantically, he reached for his sidearm, but his fingers found nothing but the cold, empty holster—he was out of bullets. Panic surged through him like a tidal wave as the child, eyes glazed and mouth frothing, pinned him down with unnatural strength.
"No, no, please!" he begged, his voice cracking and tears streaming down his face. The child's small hands were like iron, holding him in place with a strength that belied their size. De Vera's heart pounded wildly in his chest, his mind a whirlwind of terror. He had faced death before, but this was different. This was raw, primal, and terrifyingly intimate.
The child's mouth opened wide, revealing rows of blood-stained teeth. De Vera's screams pierced the air as the child bit down, tearing into his flesh with savage glee. The pain was indescribable, but it was the sight of the child's face—once innocent, now a grotesque mask of hunger—that shattered his resolve.
"Help! Someone, please!" he cried out, his voice hoarse and desperate. But the stadium, filled with the cacophony of chaos and despair, offered no savior. The child's teeth sank deeper, ripping through muscle and sinew, each bite sending waves of agony through his body.
De Vera's vision blurred as his strength ebbed away, replaced by a creeping numbness. His mind flashed to his family, to the faces of loved ones he had fought so hard to protect. He had given everything, sacrificed so much, but it hadn't been enough. His tears mingled with the blood pooling around him, a bitter testament to his helplessness.
The child's relentless assault continued, tearing chunks of flesh from his body. De Vera's screams faded to weak gasps, his vision dimming as the life drained from him. The world around him became a distant echo, the once-deafening sounds of horror and chaos now a muted, haunting lullaby.
With a final, shuddering breath, De Vera's body went limp, his eyes staring blankly at the darkened sky above. The stadium continued to resonate with the sounds of suffering, but for De Vera, there was only silence. His battle was over, his spirit consumed by the darkness that had overtaken the world.
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