Thomas stood near the floor-to-ceiling window, his hands resting on the cracked glass as he gazed out at the ruined cityscape. Fires still burned in the distance, illuminating the skeletal remains of collapsed buildings. The night had turned eerily quiet, save for the occasional distant explosion or burst of gunfire from MOA's defensive lines.
His eyes narrowed as he noticed something unusual.
A large mass of zombies was sprinting toward the MOA complex at an unnatural speed. Their movements weren't the sluggish, aimless shuffling of regular infected. These ones were driven. Determined.
They were running toward something.
Toward someone.
Erica stepped up beside him, her bat resting against her shoulder as she followed his gaze. Her expression darkened. "I've been noticing that lately," she said. "They don't just wander anymore. They move like they've got a purpose."
Thomas didn't respond.
Because he knew where they were heading.
MOA.
His men.
They were still fighting.
