The mansion groaned with the weight of the chaos inside. Refugees swarmed through the shattered front doors, their wild cries echoing through the halls as they fought tooth and nail to breach the final defenses. Gunfire rattled off in every direction, the sharp cracks of rifle shots mixing with the dull thuds of fists and makeshift weapons striking flesh.
George stood in the center of it all, his breath ragged, his Winchester held tight in his hands. His heart pounded against his ribcage, the adrenaline coursing through his veins making it hard to focus on anything but the next threat. He had taken out three, no, four attackers in the last few minutes, but it felt like an eternity since the refugees had broken through the gates.
To his right, Raven and Lucy were engaged in their own fierce battles, fending off the relentless onslaught. Raven's AR-15 spat rounds with deadly precision, each shot finding its target as she held her ground near the front door. Her face was a mask of determination, the thin line of blood running down her forearm ignored in the heat of battle.
Lucy fought with a mixture of desperation and fury. Her Glock 19 barked as she fired at the approaching refugees, the recoil barely noticeable in her hands as she pumped round after round into the crowd. Despite the chaos, George could see the fatigue etched into her face, the bruises and cuts she'd sustained in the earlier waves now taking their toll. But she didn't falter. None of them could.
Suddenly, a commanding voice cut through the noise, cold and chilling in its calmness.
"Slade! Slade, get in here!"
The shout came from somewhere deeper inside the mansion, from one of the refugees still trying to push through the defenses. George's blood ran cold at the name. He had heard it whispered among the refugees, spoken with a mixture of fear and reverence. Calvin Slade, the leader of this madness.
George's eyes scanned the room, searching for the man behind the name. And then he saw him. A tall figure, moving with deliberate purpose through the crowd, his gaze cold and calculating as he took in the chaos around him. Slade was dressed in a tattered military jacket, the insignia barely visible through the grime and blood that covered it. His face was gaunt, his features sharp and angular, but his eyes… his eyes were what made George's stomach twist in dread.
They were ice. Cold, emotionless, and devoid of anything remotely human.
Slade moved with the precision of a predator, his bayonet gleaming in the dim light as he stalked through the battlefield. He didn't rush into the fray like the others. Instead, he picked his targets carefully, dispatching them with quick, efficient movements. He was methodical, merciless, and terrifying in his calmness.
"George!" Raven's voice snapped him back to the present, and he turned just in time to see her firing at a group of refugees who had broken through one of the side doors.
"They're still coming," she shouted over the din. "We need to hold them back!"
But George's attention was elsewhere. His gaze was locked on Slade as the man approached the hallway where Thomas was stationed. Thomas, still injured from the earlier fight, was struggling to defend his position. He had managed to shoot a few of the refugees who had tried to push through, but George could see the strain in his movements. He was slowing down. He wouldn't last much longer.
Slade, sensing weakness like a shark smelling blood, zeroed in on Thomas with a predator's grace. George's heart lurched in his chest as he saw Slade close the distance between them.
"No…" George whispered, but his voice was drowned out by the cacophony of battle.
Slade reached Thomas in seconds. The younger man fired his rifle in a desperate attempt to defend himself, but Slade dodged the shot with inhuman precision, his movements smooth and calculated. Before Thomas could react, Slade was on him, his bayonet raised high.
With cold, detached efficiency, Slade drove the bayonet into Thomas's already injured side, the blade sinking deep into flesh. Thomas screamed, a sound of pure agony that cut through the noise like a knife. He collapsed to the ground, writhing in pain as Slade twisted the blade, his lips curling into a sadistic smile.
"You're pathetic," Slade hissed, his voice low and menacing. "A weakling, just like the rest of them."
Thomas's face contorted in agony as he clutched at his wound, his hands slick with blood. His breathing was shallow, labored, and George could see the life draining from his eyes. The sight of it made his blood boil. Slade was enjoying this. The bastard was savoring every second of Thomas's pain.
George didn't think. He couldn't. His body moved on instinct, his feet pounding against the floor as he rushed toward Slade, his Winchester held at the ready. But before he could reach him, another figure darted forward.
It was Lucy.
Without hesitation, she drove her knife into the back of Slade's knee, the blade sinking deep into muscle. Slade let out a guttural growl of pain as his leg buckled beneath him, dropping him to one knee. He twisted his body, reaching for Lucy with a snarl, but before he could react, George was there.
With a roar of fury, George kicked Slade square in the chest, the impact sending the man sprawling backward into a pile of broken furniture. The wind was knocked from Slade's lungs as he hit the ground, his face twisted in pain and anger. But even as he gasped for breath, there was no fear in his eyes. Only cold, calculated rage.
"You think this will stop me?" Slade spat, his voice dripping with contempt. He pushed himself to his feet, his movements slow but deliberate. "You think you can win?"
George didn't respond. His heart was pounding in his chest, his vision narrowed to a tunnel as he focused on the man before him. The world around him faded away, the gunfire, the screams, the chaos. All that mattered was Slade. The man who had hurt his people. The man who needed to die.
Slade, despite the wound in his leg, advanced with chilling calmness. He grabbed a broken piece of wood, a jagged leg from a shattered chair, and swung it at George with brutal force. George barely had time to dodge, the splintered wood catching him on the side and tearing through his shirt. Pain flared in his ribs, but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop.
The fight was on.
Slade moved with the precision of a trained soldier, each strike controlled and deadly. He swung the makeshift weapon at George again, aiming for his head this time. George blocked it with his Winchester, the sound of wood splintering filling the air as the two weapons clashed.
They circled each other, their breaths ragged and labored. Every move was calculated, every step a test of endurance and will. Slade's cold, icy gaze never left George, and for the first time since the battle began, George felt a flicker of doubt. This man wasn't just a brute, he was dangerous. And he knew how to kill.
Slade lunged forward, swinging the chair leg at George's midsection. George blocked the strike again, but the force of the blow sent him stumbling back, his feet skidding across the blood-slicked floor. He could feel the strain in his muscles, the fatigue that had been building since the battle began now threatening to overwhelm him.
But he couldn't give in. Not now.
Not when Slade was so close.
Slade's eyes gleamed with malice as he circled George, the jagged chair leg still gripped tightly in his hand. He advanced slowly, his movements deliberate and precise, like a predator toying with its prey.
"You've fought well," Slade sneered, his voice low and icy. "But this ends here. You can't stop me, and you can't save them. Not from what's coming."
George's grip on the Winchester tightened, his knuckles white. His breath came in ragged gasps, but he refused to let fear overtake him. He had fought too hard, survived too much to let this monster win now. He glanced briefly at Lucy, who was helping Thomas, her eyes filled with urgency.
He couldn't let Slade hurt anyone else.
With a roar, Slade lunged forward, aiming the chair leg for George's head. George ducked at the last second, the wooden weapon whistling through the air above him. As Slade overextended, George seized the opportunity, driving his shoulder into Slade's chest and sending them both crashing into a nearby table. The force of the impact shattered the table, sending splinters flying in every direction.
Slade grunted in pain but recovered quickly, swinging the broken chair leg again. This time, it caught George across the ribs, a sharp pain shooting through his side. He stumbled backward, gasping for breath, but he held his ground, refusing to give Slade the satisfaction of seeing him falter.
"You're nothing but a coward," George spat, his voice strained but defiant. "A pathetic excuse for a man, hiding behind your madness and cruelty."
Slade's lips curled into a snarl, his eyes flashing with fury. He lunged again, this time with the bayonet in hand. George barely managed to deflect the blade with his Winchester, the metal clanging loudly as sparks flew. The force of the blow sent vibrations through his arms, but George held firm, using all his strength to push Slade back.
The two men grappled, fists swinging, feet kicking, and furniture shattering around them. The mansion's once grand foyer had turned into a battlefield, with debris scattered everywhere. George's muscles burned with exhaustion, but the thought of protecting his family, his people, kept him going. He couldn't let this monster win.
Suddenly, Slade twisted, using his momentum to slam George into the wall. The impact knocked the air from George's lungs, and for a moment, the world spun. Slade was on him in an instant, pinning him against the wall with his forearm pressed against George's throat.
"You think you're a hero?" Slade hissed, his face inches from George's. His breath was hot and foul, filled with the stench of death. "You're nothing but a fool. I'm going to kill you, and then I'm going to gut every single one of those people you're so desperate to protect."
Rage surged through George like wildfire. The thought of Slade laying his hands on Raven, Lucy, or anyone else filled him with a fury he had never felt before. With a primal growl, George drove his knee into Slade's stomach, causing the man to grunt in pain and loosen his grip. George seized the opportunity, slamming his forehead into Slade's face. The sickening crunch of bone echoed through the room as Slade staggered back, blood pouring from his now-broken nose.
George didn't hesitate. He lunged forward, tackling Slade to the ground. The two men rolled across the floor, each fighting for control of the knife. Slade's cold, calculating eyes locked with George's, the hatred between them palpable. They wrestled for the blade, both men grunting and snarling as they fought for dominance.
Finally, with a burst of adrenaline, George managed to pry the knife from Slade's grasp. He pinned Slade to the ground, his knee pressing into the man's chest, and for a brief moment, their eyes met, George's filled with raw determination, Slade's with cold, icy malice.
"I'll see you in hell," Slade whispered, his voice filled with venom.
George didn't hesitate. He drove the knife across Slade's throat in one swift, decisive motion. The blade cut deep, severing flesh and artery. Blood sprayed across George's hands, warm and thick, as Slade's eyes widened in shock. His hands flew to his neck, trying in vain to stop the bleeding, but it was too late.
Slade gurgled, his breath coming in ragged gasps as the life drained from him. His body twitched beneath George, but within seconds, the light in his eyes faded, and the man who had caused so much suffering was no more.
George stayed there for a moment, his chest heaving as he watched Slade bleed out beneath him. His heart raced, and his hands shook, the weight of what he had just done crashing down on him. But there was no time for reflection. No time for remorse. This was survival.
He stood, covered in blood, the knife still clutched in his hand. The battle wasn't over yet.
"George!" Lucy's voice snapped him back to reality. She was by Thomas's side, trying to stop the bleeding from his wound. "He's hurt bad. We need to get him to safety."
George wiped the blood from his face and nodded. He hurried over to Lucy and Thomas, his adrenaline still pumping. Thomas's face was pale, his breathing labored, but he was alive. That was what mattered.
"We'll get him upstairs," George said, his voice hoarse. "He'll be safer there."
With Lucy's help, George lifted Thomas, careful not to aggravate his wound further. They moved quickly through the mansion, navigating the wreckage and debris. The sounds of battle were starting to die down, but George knew they couldn't let their guard down yet.
As they reached the staircase, Raven appeared, her face covered in dirt and blood, but her eyes still sharp and determined.
"Is it over?" she asked, her voice tight with concern as she looked at George.
"Slade's dead," George said, his voice grim. "But there are still a few stragglers. We need to finish this."
Raven nodded, her grip tightening on her AR-15. "I'll take care of the rest. You get him upstairs."
With a final glance, Raven disappeared back into the chaos, her figure slipping into the shadows as she continued the fight. George and Lucy carried Thomas up the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last.
When they finally reached the second floor, they laid Thomas on one of the makeshift beds, his face contorted with pain. Dr. Penworth rushed over, immediately tending to his wound, her hands working quickly and efficiently.
George stood by the window, his eyes scanning the courtyard below. The bodies of the fallen refugees littered the ground, the aftermath of the battle now fully visible. The mansion, once their safe haven, was battered and broken, but it had held. They had survived.
For now.
As the adrenaline began to wear off, the weight of everything that had happened settled heavily on George's shoulders. He wiped a hand over his face, smearing blood and sweat across his skin. Slade was dead. The immediate threat was over, but the victory felt hollow. There was still so much to do, so many battles yet to fight.
A soft hand touched his shoulder, and George turned to see Lucy standing beside him. Her face was tired, but there was a softness in her eyes that gave him some small comfort.
"You did it," she said quietly, her voice filled with a mix of pride and relief. "We did it."
George nodded, though his mind was still racing. "Yeah… but this isn't the end."
Lucy gave him a small, knowing smile. "No, it's not. But we're still here. That's what matters."
George looked out the window again, his eyes tracing the horizon. The fires from the battle still burned in the distance, but the night was growing quieter, the chaos subsiding. For now, they had won. But the world outside was still filled with darkness and danger, and George knew that more was coming.
Much more.