CH.5 The Grim Price of Desperation

As the group cautiously advanced through the thick white smoke that billowed from the fire extinguishers, the atmosphere was charged with tension. Their footsteps were muffled, their breaths labored, and their makeshift weapons were gripped with white-knuckled intensity.

The extinguishers had created both a diversion and a cover, and Alen's heart pounded in his chest. He knew that they were not out of danger yet, but he had faith in the plan. With Quinn by his side, they moved closer to their goal—the locked door of the shooting range.

However, as they reached the entrance, their worst fears were realized. The heavy steel door was sealed shut, a formidable obstacle blocking their path to the firearms within. Panic threatened to take hold as the group stared at the locked entrance.

"We need to find a way in," Quinn urged, his voice a hushed but urgent whisper. "Alen, any ideas?"

Alen's mind raced as he assessed the situation. He knew that time was not on their side, and the undead were still lurking nearby. His genius intellect had to come up with a solution.

"We need something to breach this door," Alen replied, his voice equally quiet. "Look around for anything that might work."

The survivors scoured the hallway, searching for anything that could serve as a battering ram. Finally, they found a metal pipe, slightly bent but still sturdy. With grim determination, they took hold of it, ready to use it as a makeshift battering ram.

As they prepared to strike the door, they noticed something chilling. The hallway leading to the shooting range was filled with the lifeless forms of their fellow students who had shared the same desperate plan. The once-vibrant young souls were now mere corpses, their hopes extinguished.

The sight sent a shiver down their spines, a stark reminder of the grim price of desperation. Many of those who had tried to reach the firearms before them had met a cruel fate, falling victim to the relentless undead that now lurked within the shooting range.

With heavy hearts and a newfound determination, the group swung the metal pipe at the door with all their might. The echoing clang

of the metal against metal drew the attention of the undead, who began to shamble towards them with a renewed sense of purpose.

Alen's heart sank as he realized that their plan had failed. The smoke had not stopped the undead, and now they were closing in on the survivors. They could hear the moans and shuffling of the undead getting closer and closer, and they knew that they had to act fast.

"Get ready," Alen shouted to his team. "We have to fight our way out of here."

The survivors braced themselves, their weapons at the ready. They could see the first of the undead emerging from the smoke, their eyes fixed on their prey.

With a battle cry, the survivors charged forward, swinging their weapons with all their might. The sound of metal hitting flesh echoed through the hallway as they fought for their lives.

But it was a losing battle. The undead were too many, too relentless, and too strong. One by one, the survivors fell, overwhelmed by the sheer number of undead.

Their screams echoed in the room drawing more undead to them, Alen was at a loss for words, his plan was simple sure, but it should have bought them more time than what they had. But then he caught glimpses of an undead that had managed to sneak behind him, its teeth bloodied and its breath rotten, a breath away from Alen's face. And yet it didn't attack him, Alen could feel his breath leaving him, but he didn't dare to move a muscle.

He froze, in the face of danger Alen was frozen stiff, normally this would be a bad thing but right now it was perfect, this close Alen could see the eyes of the undead, they were as white as paper.

'These things are blind' Alen thought to himself, suddenly a loud thud was heard, and a mighty roar echoed as Quinn had hit the zombie, killing it on the spot. But before Quinn could ask Alen how he was, Alen had placed his hand covering Quinn's mouth and pulling him to the ground, their breath labored but still they tried their best to keep it under control.

Alen's gaze fixed on the fighting happening around the room, although the room was filled with the smoke screen, he could still make out what he wanted to observe, he watched as the group he arrived with get eaten one by one and only the ones that were shouting and screaming, swinging and creating a ruckus where the ones surrounded by the undead and eventually fell to the numbers and devoured.

Alen's heart pounded like a war drum in his chest as he crouched behind a stack of overturned chairs, watching in horror as the group he had ventured to the shooting range with was being devoured one by one by the relentless undead. His gaze was fixed on the nightmarish scene before him, but his every instinct screamed at him to keep still and hidden. He knew that playing the hero would only lead to more death.

Quinn, his impulsive friend, struggled against Alen's firm grip. Sweat glistened on Quinn's furrowed brow as he strained to break free, desperate to save someone, anyone. Alen's weight bore down on Quinn, pinning him to the cold, concrete floor. He whispered urgently, "Quinn, stay down! You can't help them now. We need to survive."

Amidst the chaos, a girl named Emily, known for her cheerful disposition and quick wit, had crumpled to the ground. Her petite frame quivered, and tears streamed down her ashen face. Her trembling hands covered her ears in a futile attempt to block out the nightmarish sounds around her. She bit down on her lower lip, her mouth tightly shut, fearing that even the slightest whimper might invite death.

Emily's wide, terrified eyes darted around, taking in the horrific tableau unfolding before her. She could see Alen's calculated movements, his cold detachment as he prioritized survival over empathy. A chill ran down her spine, and she knew that she had to do the same. Her body betrayed her as a warm sensation spread, and she felt urine stain her clothes, but she remained motionless, locked in her silent nightmare.

Time seemed to stretch into an eternity as the gruesome commotion continued. The agonized cries of her fellow club members were replaced by guttural moans and shuffling footsteps as the undead continued to prowl the room. Alen, Quinn, and Emily lay still, their very breaths synchronized with the rhythm of the undead.

Finally, the room fell silent, save for the ominous moans echoing in the distance. The grotesque feast had ended, and only the three of them remained. The survivors exchanged cautious glances but dared not speak, lest they attract unwanted attention.

Quinn, though alive and unscathed, harbored a storm of anger within him. He understood that Alen's actions had ensured their survival, but it was the secrecy that grated on him. He whispered angrily to Alen, "You could have warned them, shared what you knew. Some of us had friends here. Our captain... he's..." Quinn's voice faltered as he gestured toward the captain, whose mangled form lay nearby.

Alen met Quinn's gaze with cold determination. "I had to be sure, Quinn," he replied, his voice as icy as his resolve. "There's something about these creatures, something I've yet to figure out. I didn't want to risk anyone else until I understood it better."

The tension in the room was palpable, a reflection of the horror and despair that had become their new reality. In the silence that followed, Alen, Quinn, and Emily knew that their fight for survival had only just begun, and the world they once knew was now a distant memory.