The old man climbed into the large cart, its body featuring a sizable oval slit running through the middle and extending in a 270-degree arc.
From the opening protruded a large, round barrel, composed of six smaller barrels meshed together. It bore a striking resemblance to the M134 Minigun, but its crude craftsmanship revealed it to be a homemade design—a shadow of its military counterpart.
"So now, can you follow my lead and pull your people together?"
"As you wish, General Vaidya."
"Good. I wish you luck. Just keep them off my back, alright, Harman? I'm counting on you."
They nodded before the old man turned to face his people, his roar echoing like a lion's, a sound that harkened back to his illustrious military career. Despite the years, he still wore his Indian Army uniform, adorned with medals. Thirty percent of them had been awarded after the plague started—a testament to his hands-on approach to conflict.
As if the undead were courteous enough to wait, the moment of battle finally arrived. From the horizon, they came, pouring down from all four directions. Thousands of walkers snarled and growled as they advanced; leading the charge were ten screechers, creatures more beast than human, leaping from one ruined building to another. Their movements were erratic and predatory, a haunting sight against the bleak ruins of the city.
"Brothers! We may have been enemies in the past, but our petty disputes are nothing compared to the crusade we march upon today! Set aside your grievances or, better yet, direct them toward our true enemy—the enemy of all humanity! Give them hell and show no mercy!"
"For our fallen friends and families!" Harman bellowed, his voice raw with emotion, igniting the same fire within his comrades.
"For our brothers and sisters!" The combined roar shook the air, momentarily drowning out the guttural snarls of the approaching horde.
The fear that had once gripped them burned away, replaced by an iron resolve—the will to survive and see the next morning's light.
They took their positions. Those skilled in hand-to-hand combat moved to the front, while the marksmen climbed onto higher ground—remnants of a once-thriving green space, now a barren slab of concrete amidst the ruins.
"Hold it...hold it...fire!"
The battlefield ignited like a violent festival of lights. The first to open fire was the old man himself, swinging his machine gun left and right, cutting down the advancing undead in droves.
His makeshift contraption spat death with ruthless efficiency. The powerful rounds tore through flesh and bone, sometimes felling two or three walkers in a single shot. With a fire rate of over two thousand rounds per minute, nothing within a three-hundred-meter radius remained standing.
The metal beast he sat within rattled and groaned under the strain, heating up from the relentless barrage. Yet the old man only laughed, his cackling drowned out by the thunderous roar of gunfire. His handyman frantically fed ammunition into the contraption, ensuring the onslaught continued even as the barrel glowed red-hot.
"Stop! Stop firing! Sweep the area and finish off any stragglers. Old man, conserve your ammo! The fight ended minutes ago!" Harman called out, frustration clear in his voice. Not everything that moved needed a bullet lodged in its skull.
"Don't tell me what to do, boy!" the general snapped. "Now move ahead—we can't afford to be late! And you still have those damn screechers lurking in the back. I told you to watch them! Why the hell haven't you finished the job?"
Harman bit back a retort. There was no arguing with the old general. Better to chalk it up to his eccentricity. The man was infamous for his outlandish theories and unshakable belief in grand conspiracies. Perhaps that was why he had gathered so many followers.
Podcasts were a thing of the past, but the spirit of fringe groups lived on.
They were among the few who had refused to take shelter during the zombie flood. That meant they had a head start, pushing deeper into the city while others remained trapped in hiding. They were closing in on the crash site.
Meanwhile, on the far side of the ruins, three figures weaved through the wreckage, their mission singular: investigate the crash site.
They were an unlikely trio—the brash one, the crazed researcher, and the reluctant Normie who kept their group from falling apart. Having left their high-rise hideout days ago, they had spent their time monitoring the movements of various factions. But when the largest horde in recent memory surged through the city, they had, like most others, taken cover.
No one could have expected a last stand against such odds. Yet, somewhere in the distance, a faction was taking that very risk.
Though they couldn't see the battle from their location, the ceaseless gunfire painted a vivid picture. Whoever they were, they weren't the largest group, but they were certainly different.
"They must be crazy! Aren't they worried about attracting more zombies with all that noise?"
"People are dumb sometimes. They'll meet their end soon enough," the researcher remarked, ever the pessimist.
"Maybe they're fighting for their lives. I've never seen anyone so riled up. This could be a reaction to all the humans coming out of hiding at once," the normie reasoned.
"You might be right. We have no idea what lurks in the city center. We should be careful not to provoke its wrath."
"We should worry about ourselves first. Isn't this close enough? We're within two kilometers of the crash site. Any closer, and we risk attracting either walkers or rival factions. We don't have the numbers to face either."
"Quit complaining and keep moving. We need to see who claims the prize in the end. Plus, imagine if the craft is extraterrestrial! Our first alien encounter happening after we've nearly wiped ourselves out? The irony would be glorious! Just imagine the looks on those little gray bastards' faces!" The researcher was practically giddy with excitement, speaking loud enough to draw the attention of nearby walkers.
"Shit! You crazy bitch! Run!"
And just like that, their careful approach devolved into a desperate escape. The trio bolted, slipping through the ruins, their goal unchanged. They were historians in a crumbling world, desperate to witness history in the making.