The mansion was eerily quiet in the aftermath of the second wave. The silence was a stark contrast to the chaos that had filled the air just moments before. George stood in the foyer, his chest heaving with exhaustion, the acrid scent of smoke and blood clinging to his senses. The once grand entrance hall was now a battlefield, littered with the bodies of fallen refugees, shattered wood, and the remnants of the makeshift barricades they had fought so desperately to hold.
The air was thick with the stench of burnt wood and charred fabric. The fires that had threatened to consume the mansion had been extinguished, but the damage was done. The walls were scorched, the paint peeling away in blackened strips, and the floorboards were stained with blood, some fresh, some already dried into dark, sticky pools. George could still smell the coppery tang of blood mingling with the sharp scent of burnt wood and the faint, lingering odor of gunpowder.
His clothes were a testament to the battle they had just endured. His jacket, once sturdy and reliable, was now ripped at the shoulder, a deep gash exposing the fabric beneath. The sleeve had been singed by a Molotov cocktail that had exploded too close for comfort, leaving the edge charred and still faintly smoking.
His jeans were torn at the knee, the fabric ripped by a jagged piece of wood when he'd taken cover. Blood, his own and others', had soaked through his shirt, darkening the fabric in uneven patches. Every movement was painful, his muscles aching from the exertion and the countless bruises forming beneath his skin.
Raven was by his side, her AR-15 still gripped tightly in her hands. Her black tank top was torn at the hem, and a thin cut ran along her forearm where a desperate refugee had swung a rusted pipe at her. She had bandaged it quickly, but the makeshift wrap was already soaked through with blood. Her cargo pants were ripped at the thighs, the knees scuffed and dirty from where she had taken cover on the ground. Despite the grime and the pain etched into her features, her eyes were sharp, focused, and filled with a steely resolve.
Lucy stood nearby, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Her once neat hair was now a tangled mess, strands sticking to her sweat-soaked forehead. Her tank top had a long tear down the side, exposing a nasty bruise that was already turning a sickly shade of purple.
She winced as she moved her arm, the strain evident in the way she held her Glock 19. A small burn mark marred her left shoulder, the result of a flaming arrow that had grazed her before embedding itself in the wall. The acrid smell of burnt fabric clung to her skin, a constant reminder of how close she had come to being consumed by the flames.
Tobias and Elijah were similarly battle-worn. Tobias's shirt was torn, a deep gash on his side hastily bandaged with strips of fabric. Blood seeped through the dressing, but he remained silent, his expression one of grim determination. Elijah's left hand was bandaged where he had sliced it open on a shard of glass while reinforcing a window. Despite the pain, he reloaded his Beretta with practiced efficiency, his face set with the same resolve that had kept them all alive this long.
Amidst the chaos, Heather and Madison approached George, their faces pale but resolute. They had seen more violence in the past few hours than they had ever imagined, but there was no time to dwell on it. Heather, her eyes wide but determined, was the first to speak.
"George," she began, her voice trembling slightly, but she quickly steadied herself. "Madison and I have been thinking… We don't just want to sit back and wait for the next attack. We want to help."
George turned to face them, surprised by their initiative. "What do you have in mind?" he asked, his voice rough from shouting commands during the battle.
Madison, who had been quiet up until now, stepped forward. "We remembered something from our last scavenging trip," she said, her voice soft but gaining confidence as she spoke. "We found some leftover fireworks from the Fourth of July. We were thinking… maybe we could use them to make an explosive trap. You know, something that could slow down the next wave."
George raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Fireworks?"
"Yeah," Heather chimed in, her enthusiasm growing as she explained. "We can rig them up with some of the gasoline we've got stored. It wouldn't be a full-blown bomb, but it could create enough of an explosion to at least buy us some time. If we set it up in the backyard, where they might try to flank us, it could make a difference."
George thought for a moment, weighing the risks and rewards. The idea was risky, fireworks were unpredictable, and there was a chance they could end up doing more harm than good. But they were running out of options, and the element of surprise could give them the edge they needed.
"It's dangerous," George finally said, his tone serious. "But it might just work. If we can rig it up properly, it could help turn the tide."
Heather and Madison exchanged a glance, their nerves clear, but they nodded in agreement. "We're willing to take the risk," Madison said, her voice steady. "We want to do our part."
George nodded, impressed by their resolve. "Alright. Let's get to work. Tobias, can you help them with the setup? We need to make sure it's done right."
Tobias, despite his injury, gave a curt nod. "I'm on it. We'll need to be careful with the gasoline and make sure the fireworks are rigged to detonate at the right time."
As they began to prepare, George couldn't help but feel a mix of pride and fear. Pride in the way everyone was stepping up, willing to fight for their survival, and fear for what was to come. The smell of smoke and blood was thick in the air, a constant reminder of how close they had come to losing everything. But there was no time to dwell on it, they had to be ready for the final wave.
Raven, who had been watching the exchange, stepped closer to George, her voice low and urgent. "We need to shore up the rest of our defenses, too. If they get inside again, we won't be able to hold them off."
George nodded in agreement. "We'll reinforce the windows and doors with anything we can find. We're running low on ammo, so we'll need to set up more traps, too, anything to slow them down."
The group dispersed, each member taking up their task with a grim determination. Madison and Heather, under Tobias's guidance, began rigging the fireworks in the backyard, carefully placing them where they could do the most damage.
Raven and Lucy worked on reinforcing the windows and doors, using whatever materials they could scavenge from the mansion. Elijah and Marcy set up additional noise traps around the perimeter, using old cans and bottles to create early warning systems.
As George moved to help with the preparations, he couldn't shake the gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach. The mansion was in rough shape, and so were they. But they had survived this long, and they weren't going to give up now. The scent of smoke and blood hung heavy in the air, a constant reminder of the battle they had just fought, and the one that was still to come.
As the group continued their preparations, the air inside the mansion grew thick with the sense of impending doom. The smell of smoke, blood, and sweat was pervasive, clinging to their clothes and skin, making it impossible to forget the horrors they had just survived, and the ones they were about to face.
Outside, the sun had begun to set, casting long shadows across the yard. The remnants of the earlier battle were starkly illuminated in the fading light, the bodies of fallen refugees scattered across the lawn, the broken pieces of the barricades, and the scorched patches of earth where Molotov cocktails had exploded. The sight was a grim reminder that the worst was yet to come.
In the backyard, Tobias worked quickly and efficiently with Madison and Heather to set up the fireworks trap. The two girls, though nervous, followed his instructions carefully, their hands steady as they rigged the explosives. The fireworks themselves were a mix of different types, rockets, fountains, and roman candles, each one packed with enough explosive power to create a significant impact. They carefully attached them to the gasoline containers, ensuring that the detonation would be triggered at just the right moment.
"This should do the trick," Tobias muttered as he finished connecting the wires to the remote detonator. His side ached with every movement, the gash from earlier still bleeding slightly beneath the bandage, but he pushed through the pain. They couldn't afford any mistakes.
Heather wiped the sweat from her brow, smudging dirt and ash across her face. "How much time do we have?" she asked, her voice tight with tension.
"Not much," Tobias replied, glancing toward the horizon where the last rays of sunlight were disappearing. "They'll come at us once it's dark, thinking it'll give them the advantage. We need to be ready before then."
Madison bit her lip, her eyes flicking nervously between the fireworks and the mansion. "Do you think this will be enough?"
Tobias paused, considering her question. "It'll slow them down," he finally said. "And that's all we need. Every second counts."
The girls nodded, their expressions grim but resolute. They finished the last of the setup, carefully burying the fireworks and gasoline containers beneath a layer of dirt and debris to disguise the trap. The hope was that the refugees wouldn't see it until it was too late.
Inside the mansion, Raven and Lucy were working to reinforce the windows and doors. The mansion had already taken significant damage, and they knew that the barricades wouldn't hold forever. They used whatever they could find, old furniture, metal scraps, and even parts of the broken barricades from the earlier battle, to reinforce the weak points.
Raven's hands were rough and calloused, a result of days spent fighting and fortifying their defenses. She could feel the strain in her muscles as she hammered another board into place over a broken window, but she didn't stop. There was no room for hesitation, no time to second-guess herself. The fate of everyone in the mansion depended on their preparations.
Lucy worked beside her, her movements precise and determined. Her shoulder still throbbed from the burn she had sustained, but she ignored the pain, focusing instead on the task at hand. She could feel the tension between her and Raven, the unspoken rivalry that had grown since their confrontation over George. But now wasn't the time for that. They had to work together if they wanted to survive.
"How's it holding up?" George asked as he approached, his voice rough from exhaustion.
Raven stepped back from the window, wiping sweat from her brow. "It'll hold," she said, though her voice lacked confidence. "At least for a little while. But if they hit us as hard as they did last time…"
George nodded, understanding what she couldn't bring herself to say. "We've done what we can," he said. "Now it's just a matter of holding out as long as possible."
Lucy glanced over at him, her expression serious. "What about the ammo?"
George's jaw tightened. "We're running low. We need to make every shot count. Use the guns only when absolutely necessary. We've set up traps and reinforced the walls, but if they get through…"
"We'll be ready," Raven interrupted, her voice firm. "We'll use whatever we have to, knives, axes, anything. We're not going down without a fight."
George looked at the two women, their faces hardened by determination. Despite everything they'd been through, despite the injuries and exhaustion, they were still willing to fight. It filled him with a sense of pride and a deep, gnawing fear. They were strong, but they were also human, and humans could only take so much before they broke.
"Let's get everyone inside," George finally said. "We need to be in position before it gets dark."
As they gathered in the main foyer, the group was somber, the weight of the coming battle pressing down on them. Madison and Heather joined them, their faces pale but resolute. Marcy, always the stoic presence, was already at the top of the stairs, her sniper rifle cradled in her arms as she watched the front door with narrowed eyes.
Tobias, his side bandaged but still bleeding slightly, leaned against the wall, his rifle at the ready. Elijah was by his side, reloading his Beretta with quick, efficient movements. The young man's hand was still bandaged from his earlier injury, but he showed no signs of slowing down.
"We've set up everything we can," George said, addressing the group. "The traps are in place, the windows and doors are reinforced, and we have a few surprises for them in the backyard. We've done everything we can to prepare."
"But?" Marcy asked, her voice cutting through the tense silence.
George sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "But we're low on ammo, and if they get inside… we're going to have to fight them off with whatever we have left."
Raven looked around at the group, her eyes filled with determination. "We've made it this far. We can do this. We just need to hold out long enough for them to realize we're not worth the fight."
Madison nodded, her grip tightening on the .22 caliber rifle Tobias had given her. "We're ready."
Heather, though visibly nervous, squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. "We'll fight with everything we've got."
George looked at the faces of the people around him, their clothes torn, their bodies battered, but their spirits unbroken. He knew the odds were against them, but he also knew they had something the refugees didn't: each other. They had fought and survived together, and they would face this final wave the same way.
"Alright," George said, his voice steady despite the fear gnawing at his insides. "Let's get to our positions. Remember, stick to the plan. If anything goes wrong, fall back to the stairs. We hold the high ground, no matter what."
The group dispersed, each person taking up their assigned position. Madison and Heather moved to the second-floor windows, where they could watch the backyard and be ready to trigger the explosive mine if necessary. Tobias and Elijah took up positions by the front windows, their rifles aimed through the narrow slits between the boards. Marcy stayed at the top of the stairs, her sniper rifle trained on the front door.
George, Raven, and Lucy remained in the foyer, ready to be the first line of defense when the refugees inevitably breached the front door. The tension was thick in the air, the anticipation almost suffocating as they waited in silence for the final wave to begin.
As the last rays of sunlight disappeared below the horizon, the mansion was plunged into darkness, the only light coming from the faint glow of the embers still smoldering in the yard. The silence was broken only by the occasional creak of the floorboards or the distant howl of the wind. The world outside was a void, an endless black expanse that hid whatever horrors were lurking just out of sight.
George's heart pounded in his chest, the fear of what was to come gnawing at him. He glanced at Raven and Lucy, both of whom were equally tense, their weapons at the ready. There was no going back now. They were in this together, and they would see it through to the end.
As the group settled into their positions, a strained voice called out from deeper within the mansion. "George… Raven… I need a weapon!"
George turned sharply to see Thomas, pale and clearly still in pain, propping himself up against the wall as he hobbled toward them. His face was taut with determination despite the sweat beading on his brow. Dr. Erica Penworth, who had been tending to him, looked on with concern, but she didn't try to stop him.
"You're in no shape to fight," Raven said, frowning as she looked at the bandage wrapped around his midsection.
"I know," Thomas replied, his voice hoarse. "But if they get in… if they break through everything… I need to be able to defend myself. I can't just sit here and wait to die."
George hesitated for a moment, then nodded. He understood the feeling, everyone needed to do their part if they were going to survive this. "Alright," George said, walking over to where they had their weapons stash. He picked up an old bolt-action rifle and handed it to Thomas, along with a small box of ammo. "It's not much, but it'll do the job. Make every shot count."
Thomas took the rifle with a grateful nod, his hands shaking slightly as he loaded it. "Thanks. I won't let you down."
"You won't need to," George said, patting him on the shoulder. "Just stay safe and keep them out of here as long as you can."
With that, Thomas moved back toward the interior of the mansion, positioning himself in a corner where he could cover one of the hallways leading to the foyer. Dr. Penworth followed him, giving George a tight-lipped nod of approval. They all knew this was a desperate situation, but there was no other option.
As the group resumed their positions, the silence outside began to shift. The air, once still and ominous, was now filled with the distant sounds of chanting and shouting. The noise grew louder, rising up the hill like a wave of fury and desperation. George's heart began to race as the first flickers of fire appeared in the distance, dozens of torches held high by the advancing crowd. The glow of the flames cast eerie, flickering shadows across the trees, making the scene even more nightmarish.
"They're coming," Raven whispered, her grip tightening on her AR-15. The words were unnecessary, everyone could hear the cacophony of rage and hunger approaching.
George's eyes narrowed as he focused on the source of the noise. Through the darkness, he could make out the forms of the refugees, a seething mass of bodies surging up the hill toward the mansion. At the center of the crowd was a large, flaming wagon, its wooden sides crackling and spitting embers as it rolled forward. The wagon was filled with debris, likely scavenged from the ruined towns they had passed through, and it was being pushed by a line of men who grunted with effort as they heaved it up the hill.
"They're going to use that as a battering ram," George muttered, his voice grim. "They're planning to take down the wall and the gate in one go."
"Then we'll have to stop them before they reach it," Lucy said, raising her Glock 19. "Let's make every shot count."
The group opened fire as the refugees came into range, the crack of rifles and the bark of pistols echoing through the night. George's Winchester kicked against his shoulder as he squeezed the trigger, sending a round into the crowd. A man pushing the wagon stumbled and fell, a dark stain spreading across his chest, but another took his place almost immediately. It was as if the refugees had an endless supply of bodies, each one willing to sacrifice themselves to breach the mansion's defenses.
Raven and Lucy fired in quick succession, their bullets finding targets with deadly precision. The front lines of the crowd began to falter, the men and women falling to the ground with cries of pain and terror. But the wagon continued to roll forward, inching closer to the wall with each passing second.
"Keep them away from the wall!" Tobias shouted, his voice barely audible over the din of battle. He and Elijah were firing from their positions by the iron fence, picking off refugees who tried to flank the mansion. But despite their best efforts, the sheer number of attackers was overwhelming.
A Molotov cocktail sailed through the air, its flaming arc briefly illuminating the night before it smashed against the wall. The flames spread quickly, licking up the wooden planks as the refugees cheered and redoubled their efforts. George felt a surge of panic as he realized they wouldn't be able to stop the wagon in time.
"Fall back!" George yelled, his voice cracking with urgency. "They're going to break through, get ready to defend the mansion!"
The group retreated toward the front of the mansion, still firing as they moved. The flames from the Molotov cocktail were growing, casting an ominous glow over the battlefield. The refugees, sensing victory, began to chant louder, their voices merging into a primal roar that sent shivers down George's spine.
Then, with a deafening crash, the flaming wagon smashed into the wall. The impact was tremendous, splintering the wood and sending shards flying in all directions. The wall buckled under the force, and with a groan of tortured wood, it collapsed inward, creating a gaping hole in the mansion's defenses. The wagon continued its destructive path, rolling toward the iron gate with terrifying momentum.
"Here they come!" Marcy shouted from her position at the top of the stairs. Her sniper rifle cracked as she picked off a refugee trying to climb over the rubble.
The wagon slammed into the iron gate with a resounding clang, the force of the impact bending the metal and creating a narrow opening. The refugees surged forward, screaming as they poured through the breach like a flood. The final wave had begun.
"Now!" George barked, giving the signal to Madison and Heather.
In the backyard, hidden from the view of the advancing refugees, Madison and Heather pressed the button on the remote detonator. For a split second, there was nothing, just the sound of their own labored breathing. Then, with a roar that seemed to shake the very earth, the fireworks exploded all at once.
The night sky lit up with a brilliant flash of color and light as the fireworks erupted in a chaotic display of fire and smoke. The explosion was massive, far more powerful than any of them had anticipated. The blast tore through the back ranks of the refugees, sending bodies flying and scattering debris in every direction. Screams of pain and terror filled the air as dozens of men and women were caught in the blast, their bodies torn apart by the force of the explosion.
The fireball rose into the sky, a column of flame that illuminated the battlefield in a hellish glow. The explosion had created a brief moment of chaos among the refugees, who faltered as they tried to regroup. But the front lines, undeterred by the carnage behind them, pressed forward with renewed fury.
"Get ready!" George shouted, his voice barely audible over the roar of the flames and the screams of the dying. He raised his Winchester, taking aim at the first refugees who managed to push through the breach in the gate. "This is it, make every shot count!"
The final battle had begun, and there would be no turning back.