As we advanced toward the base, the sound of gunfire grew louder and louder.
Occasional explosions echoed in the distance, mixed with muffled screams and rushed orders in Russian.
Chaos had already broken out—and that played in our favor.
"Gunfire... probably zombies. We're going in silently to assess the situation," I said, keeping my eyes fixed on the base ahead.
"The squads we took out had no comms to know what the hell's happening here... or this just started."
Everyone confirmed with quick nods, understanding the importance of silence.
We crawled through the snow, approaching the perimeter fence. From afar, we could see Russian soldiers running back and forth, firing frantically at the advancing dead.
Some were operating in squads, trying to set up containment lines, while others ran off alone, desperate.
The shooting patterns told us everything.
They were still aiming for the body, wasting ammo and time. That meant just one thing: the outbreak had only just begun inside the base.
Perfect. In the middle of all this chaos, we could infiltrate without drawing attention.
"Change of plan," I murmured, voice low but firm. "We stick together and head straight for the hangar. No time for a traditional infiltration. The chaos is our smokescreen."
Richard gave me a doubtful look, followed by an ironic smirk.
I just smiled back. For me, this was just another mission.
Ryan, always pissed off, took the lead.
Short, stocky, with a patchy beard and hard features, Ryan always looked ready for a fight—even when there was no reason for one. His bulky muscles gave him an intimidating presence, and his wide, sharp eyes oozed irritation.
He didn't walk—he marched. He spoke while spitting, swearing, almost always snorting like a bull ready to break through the fence. His hair was always shaved or cut short, matching the look of a guy who had no time for bullshit.
His furrowed brow seemed permanently locked in "pissed off" mode, and his grumbling and cursing were part of the air he breathed. But despite the explosive attitude, he was reliable to the last second.
"This fucking fence." Wasting no time, he pulled a small tactical wire cutter from his vest and sliced through the fence, creating a gap wide enough for all of us to pass through.
We moved in single file, crouched, quickly advancing into the perimeter.
As soon as we entered, the scene before us was pure chaos.
Bodies were scattered across the base's main courtyard, some still twitching as zombies fed.
The soldiers were trying to set up a defense near the barracks, while smaller teams protected ammo depots and vehicles.
A BMP-2 armored vehicle lay overturned, its treads destroyed, flames pouring out of the engine.
Soldiers shouted, trying to evacuate the wounded, but hysteria was starting to take over.
"Complicated situation," Joel whispered beside me. "If they don't act fast, the horde will spread."
Mark, quiet as always, just nodded.
Standing at 1.80 meters with an average build, Mark was the kind of man you overlooked—until he chose to act. He had short brown hair, a scruffy half-grown beard, and a serious stare that rarely showed anything but focus.
His presence was silent, but never insignificant. There was no rush in his movements, no anxiety in his posture.
He was the kind of guy who commanded respect even in silence—every look from him felt heavy. Mark was a ghost of few words, but his precision and professionalism spoke volumes in the field. Cold, calculating, always in control.