The dawn broke over the battered outskirts of the city, casting a pale glow on General Vaidya and the weary villagers.
They'd just endured a brutal night shift, repelling a zombie horde that had slammed into their camp under the cover of darkness.
These weren't your average shamblers—after sunset, they turned feral, their sluggish groans erupting into frenzied howls. It doubled the fight, and with no young blood to bolster their ranks, the old guard and four surviving fighters had scrambled to plug every breach in the perimeter.
Vaidya's jaw tightened as he surveyed the aftermath—tattered barricades, blood-slicked dirt, and the faint stench of rot lingering in the air.
He couldn't help but curse Harman, the late commander whose arrogance had left them vulnerable. Harman had swaggered through his tenure, convinced their remote outpost, farthest from the city center's heart, was untouchable. No need for reinforcements, he'd boasted.
