The zombies became louder.
Their moans? They weren't even painful, but angrier.
And right as Konrad stared down those rusted barrels, he remembered.
He wasn't wearing the Mama's Beads—heck, not even his bulletproof vest. He only had an empty rifle and this ridiculous skafander that he was sure would not protect him from the fire.
But wait, he still had his machete.
If he could grab that thing from the back of his hips, he wouldn't have to fumble with reloads.
And against those slow and lumbering enemies, crowding around him—
Yeah. That seemed to be the best choice.
Thank the spirits for all the drills with Welf back in Kasserlane. While his mind was still losing the battle against those voices, his body was fast, decisive—and moved on its own.
Using the rifle's butt as a club, he smashed the closest zombie's face. And another one.
Three more, five more. It was impossible to miss.
He swung it around. Made some space.
But only to let go and pull his machete out.
Now, he was at the centre of the circle.
They moaned, pointing guns at him at point-blank range, but hesitated for a moment.
Proof that they still cared about their lives? Or, well, someone controlling them did.
Good thing, Konrad had no such worries.
He could swing his blade any way he wanted without risking friendly fire.
And bulky suit or not, deprived of his magic and being in another world—
All those years practicing with the blade weren't for nothing.
While a full magazine wasn't enough to bring a zombie down, a wild swing did the job.
And unlike what he expected, blood sprayed everywhere.
They weren't actual undead.
But while his mind was still stuck thinking about useless things, his body worked hard.
It had to, since the zombified Stalkers no longer hesitated, either.
A cacophony of gunfire echoed in the swamp.
At that range and speed, Konrad could dance under those barrels—but for how long?
He cut down another man and jumped behind his next target. Had to stay on the move.
Force his enemies to turn and shoot each other instead.
Hoping that the scientists weren't caught in the crossfire, or—
Didn't turn into a faux-zombie, too.
But the whispers became louder. More insistent. Demanding.
They urged him to stand down, give up, surrender.
But telling this to Konrad of all people?! It only fired him up more.
His body did the dirty work, thinning out the numbers surrounding him.
"Shit, what happened?!" the radio crackled to life in his helmet.
Sokolov's voice.
Konrad had no answer to give, mind still blank, but his machete was talking.
"The transfer stopped," Sakharov moaned. His tone sounded more annoyed than panicked.
For some reason, it pissed off Konrad.
He wanted to cut faster. Deeper. Keep moving.
"Forget about that, idiot," the Corporal snapped back, too, sounding more like himself now.
Seeing movement from the corner of his eyes, he crawled to grab the shotgun, and—
BLAM.
A zombified Stalker's head exploded.
The chest shot earlier didn't do much, but this?!
Yeah. Konrad went for their necks and spines, too, keeping away from Sokolov's field of fire.
"Grab your drive and run, damn it," he urged his comrade. "Can't you see what's going on?"
Konrad ducked, stepped behind the back of another enemy, and swung.
Another shotgun shot.
He could feel the shrapnel graze his helmet, but didn't care.
The enemy split its attention now, and he took full advantage of that.
Muscle memory was a wonderful thing.
Even after his visor got smudged with blood and gunk, and with his mind only waking up, his blade was flying. Cutting. Smashing skulls in or knocking gun barrels away.
He couldn't avoid getting hit, but they were all grazing shots.
Old guns. Spoiled ammo. Still painful, but the rush of adrenaline more than made up for it.
"Shit, when did they all gather here?" Sakharov was finally awake, too.
By then, the Corporal had already had enough.
"Don't know, but grab your shit and run."
Their voices were a distant crackle inside Konrad's helmet, but a sign that they were still alive.
Still themselves. Unlike him.
He was turning into a killing machine, disregarding his own safety.
Trying to take as many of these monsters down as he could, even if he died, because—
This was what the whispers told him.
"Stop messing with my head," he shouted, cleaving a zombie in half.
"Kid, we're out. Head for the tunnel," the Corporal yelled.
Right. It was close. Beyond the crowd, and—
He got shot in the leg.
The pain he had suppressed until now exploded.
Was this the end? No. The pain meant he was still alive. On the ground, but still moving.
He was way beyond counting how many he killed or how many remained to kill.
But he was five paces away from the drainage pipe.
Five paces from the bottleneck. The shield them from the voices. From his escape.
The problem was the three human shells in his way.
BLAM.
Scratch that. Two.
Sokolov exploded another head, and Konrad took that opportunity.
Slice at another's leg, roll to knock the last one out of the way, and—
Yeah, running still wasn't an option, but he could crawl.
"Go," he yelled at the Corporal, fumbling with his empty shotgun. "I'll be right behind you."
But that was a lie.
Once he was no longer in the center of the circle, they could shoot him in the back.
And they did, too.
The freaking suit did nothing to stop that.
Konrad tried to roll away, using his healthy leg to kick the dirt underneath.
But it didn't matter. A hail of bullets followed him everywhere.
Three more paces. Could he crawl that far?!
The radio still crackled, but he couldn't make the words out.
Grabbing the edge of the concrete ring, he dragged himself inside.
Another hit. But as long as he survived, he knew the scientists could heal him with their artifacts. Fuck the pain, fuck his injuries, he had to make it there.
Even if he looked like a piece of Swiss cheese.
He was in the pipe now, the other two already gone.
At least they made it, thanks to him.
Why was he like this? Even as he was dying, he felt the relief that they got away.
Strangers, in a world no longer his own. But still, for Konrad—
"Cover your ears, kid," a new voice from the radio shook him up. "This'll be loud."
And right as the zombies caught up with him with guns ready to shoot—
BAM.
BAM.
BAM.
Fuck. Loud didn't begin to cover it.
The Gepard's thunder burst his eardrums. But it also exploded any zombie that followed.
"Once I heard the shots," Dmitry yelled, firing another round. "Knew you'd fuck something up."
One more zombie lost its head. A .50 round tore another in half.
"And I can't have you always save my skin and not the other way around, right?"
Konrad couldn't even lift his head to see the Captain run towards him, green skafander and all.
His consciousness was fading again, but it felt like he made it.
Or at the very least, the whispers finally shut up.
And rather than that purple haze, the darkness enveloping him was a welcome change at last.