Northern France, City Center, Lille – 9 a.m.
Rose was torn by her humanity. Antoine, that 19-year-old young man, didn't deserve such a death, she convinced herself, fists clenched. After securing the rope, she grabbed a heavy piece of furniture and placed it against the front door to reinforce the barricade.
— "Don't leave me… Please, kill me… but not with them, not with THAT DEMON!"
Antoine's voice, muffled and distorted by the fabric covering his mouth, echoed like a cry from the depths of darkness. He screamed, trembling in fear, his legs thrashing as if fleeing invisible shadows.
His eyes rolled back in their sockets, searching for ghosts only he seemed to see.
— "LET HIM DIE, DAMN IT!" Laura screamed, rushing toward Rose. The impact was harsh, but Rose didn't move. She stood still, consumed by the inner conflict tearing her apart. The 45-year-old man grabbed Laura by the shoulder, pulling her back.
— "I... I can't…" whispered Rose, her own words betraying the pragmatism an officer was supposed to uphold.
All around her, madness and alienation crept in, seeping into the fragile minds of the group. Saint-Cyr had trained her for stress and catastrophic scenarios, but the demonic pressure was overwhelming — a fear that rendered actions powerless. Yet, smothered by darkness, one thought kept her going: her family.
Laura's gaze was a storm of contradictions — a whirlwind of blame, fear, and unspoken understanding.
— "We're going…" Rose finally said, her tone hardened by necessity. "No one gets left behind, do you hear me? If one falls, the other lifts them up."
Her piercing gaze silenced Laura, who lowered her eyes, submitting to the soldier before her. Rose was the first to grab the rope and descend, plunging into that macabre morning. She sprinted toward the next building, the sharp snap of her rifle slicing the air, sounding like a call for death. The zombies were drawn to it; the first appeared. Rose had forgotten her fear.
— "Come on!" she shouted, sweeping the alley with bullets that cut through rotting bodies.
Their faces, twisted by decomposition, pressed forward, but she did not flinch. She counted every bullet in her head.
— "Second mag... 60 rounds..."
Her fingers slid over the empty magazine, tucking it into her pocket with mechanical precision. She pivoted, sensing the shadows closing in.
— BOOM, BOOM!
Two shots. Two corpses collapsed into the dust, sent back to forced rest. Each shot froze the air. 30 dead for 40 rounds. Laura followed first, descending next, closely followed by Célia. The teenage boy hesitated, breath short. Finally, he leaped into the void.
— "GO! GO!" Rose shouted, her mental
ammo count nearing the end. She had no bullets left. Another group of infected approached on the horizon, their nightmarish shapes outlined by the rising sun. Rose took position behind the group and pulled her only combat knife from its sheath. At 60 meters, the dead advanced — hungry, jaws snapping.
Rose, short of breath, stood as the last line of defense. The cold metal in her palm unleashed a warrior's scream.
— "I have to protect them!"
Though Rose was terrified, though she felt a primal fear deep in her soul — an ancient terror humankind had long forgotten — though she feared dying beneath the gnashing teeth of the infected… she was pushed by a force beyond herself.
— "COME GET ME, YOU BASTARDS!!!"
Rose screamed with her last breath.
— BOOM, BOOM!
The sound of gunfire echoed again — a deadly symphony in the morning. The sniper and a second rifleman were clearing the street. The infected dropped one by one under their precise shots. Rose allowed herself a faint smile of relief.
— "Wait!" the 45-year-old man cried, finally reaching the ground.
Without hesitation, Rose grabbed him by the arm, and they ran as fast as their bodies would allow. Under the cover of gunfire, they reached the building. Once the door was closed behind them, a collective sigh of relief filled the room.
— "Fuck…" panted Célia, leaning against the door. But the reprieve was short. A massive thud hit the wood, shaking the entryway with violent blows. The dead never gave up.
— "Follow me," Rose ordered in a now-icy tone. She revealed nothing of her inner torment. The doubts and fears were still there, clinging to her like a shadow. But she buried them. Her duty drove her forward.
— "Ma'am, the Sergeant's condition is stable… but… he's become like them…"
Sana's expression darkened; her words faded into a sad breath. Rose felt a chill run through her. The Sergeant had never been in direct contact with the infected, yet he had contracted the virus. The so-called virus, she thought, unleashing its veil of madness, insidious, dark, and obscure. Logic itself was powerless.
— "You've done well, Sana. The Sergeant isn't truly infected. Keep him alive, Private. I'm proud of you."
Tears welled up in Sana's eyes. Rose forced a smile — fake, but full of empathy. The second lieutenant knew full well the truth had to remain hidden — not now, not here, or it would drive the others into despair. The smallest crack in their morale would destroy them.