For advance 40+ chapters patreon.com/TranslationGod?
Inside the Church
Jill Valentine pressed her back against a stone pillar, pistol raised, breathing hard. Her service weapon felt pathetically inadequate against the nightmare crawling across the ceiling.
The Licker shrieked, its eyeless face split wide as it scuttled along the vaulted roof. Its tongue lashed out, testing the air.
"Jill!" Her partner Peyton fired twice. The bullets sparked off stone. The Licker barely noticed.
"Save your ammo!" Jill called back. Maybe thirty rounds between the three of them. Not nearly enough.
Reporter Terry Morales crouched behind the altar, camera clutched to her chest. She'd insisted on recording everything. Now she looked like she regretted it.
It had been a nightmare getting here. The three of them had fought through hordes of infected, scrounged ammunition from dead cops, and finally reached this church—supposedly a safe haven. There were survivors inside. At least, there had been.
When Jill checked the back rooms, she'd found something that made her stomach turn. A priest. A zombie—bound and chained. The priest's sister. He'd been feeding her with other people's limbs.
Before Jill could decide what to do, the sister broke free and bit him. Jill had put them both down. Mercy kills.
Now she was back in the main hall, and everything had gone to hell.
The survivors who'd been sheltering here were dead. Torn apart. The Lickers had gotten in through a broken second-floor window. Now there were two of them circling like sharks, and something worse—bigger, more muscular, with actual eyes—stalking from the shadows.
A Hunter.
"We're not making it out of here," Peyton said, voice hollow.
"Shut up," Jill snapped. "We're not dead yet."
But they were close. One more minute. Maybe two.
Then she heard it. A car engine. Roaring. Getting closer—
The stained-glass window exploded inward in a shower of colored fragments.
A black Humvee crashed through, skidding to a halt in a spray of debris. The monsters scattered, shrieking in confusion at the sudden intrusion.
The vehicle's doors flew open. Armed figures emerged—six of them, moving with tactical precision that made Jill's cop instincts sit up and take notice.
The lead man was Asian, late twenties, carrying what looked like a combat shotgun. He moved like a professional. When the Hunter lunged at him, he didn't flinch—just raised the weapon and fired.
BOOM.
The Hunter's head exploded. The body collapsed mid-leap, crashing to the floor in a heap of twitching muscle.
One shot. One kill.
A woman with short dark hair—moving with the same lethal grace—took down a Licker with a burst from her spray gun. The creature's shriek cut off wetly as it fell.
The rest of the team converged on the second Licker. Three shooters, coordinated fire, overlapping fields. The monster didn't stand a chance.
Fifteen seconds. That's how long it took them to clear the church of threats that had nearly killed Jill and her people.
The lead man lowered his shotgun, scanning for additional targets. Finding none, he turned to face Jill with a slight smile.
"You all right?" he asked.
Jill holstered her pistol, trying to process what just happened. These people had moved like Special Forces. Better than Special Forces. The precision, the coordination, the calm under pressure—this wasn't luck. This was training.
"Who are you?" she asked, keeping her voice level despite the adrenaline crash hitting her system.
The man's smile widened. "Isn't it obvious? We're your saviors."
Jill bristled at the cocky tone, but before she could respond, the dark-haired woman stepped forward.
"Marcus," she said warningly. Then to Jill: "Sorry about him. We're just... refugees. Survivors, like you."
"Refugees don't move like that," Jill said. "Refugees don't have military-grade weapons and tactical training."
"It's complicated," the woman said. She extended a hand. "I'm Alice. That's Marcus, Matt, Ryan, J.D., and Kaplan. We escaped from an Umbrella facility called the Hive. Underground research lab. That's where all this started—the infection, the outbreak. Everything."
Jill's mind raced. Umbrella. The corporation that had sealed the city. The one that had gunned down civilians at the checkpoint.
"The Hive," she repeated. "You have proof?"
"We have these." Alice held up a metal case. "T-virus samples. Original strain. Evidence of what Umbrella created. We're planning to expose them—get the truth out before they can cover it up."
Terry, the reporter, stepped forward. Her eyes were bright with professional interest despite the terror still etched on her face. "I'm Terry Morales, Channel Seven News. I've been recording everything—the outbreak, the infected, Umbrella's response. If you've got evidence, I can help you expose it."
Alice smiled. "Then we're on the same team."
Introductions were made. Ammunition was distributed—extra magazines from the group's scavenged supplies. Jill took them gratefully. Thirty rounds had become ninety. It might be enough to survive.
"The Humvee's shot," Marcus said, nodding at the vehicle. Its windshield was shattered, bullet holes stitched across the armor plating. "Plus we're low on fuel. We go on foot from here."
"There's a back exit," Jill said. "Through the cemetery. Less exposed than the front."
Marcus nodded. "Lead the way."
The Cemetery
They moved through the graveyard as a group, weapons ready, scanning for threats. The sun was setting—long shadows stretched between tombstones, turning every shape into a potential monster.
Peyton stumbled.
"You okay?" Jill asked, steadying him.
"Yeah, just..." He looked down at his leg. His pants were torn. Beneath the fabric, Jill could see the wound—a bite mark, deep and angry, already showing signs of infection.
Her blood went cold.
"Peyton..."
"I know." His voice was quiet. "I didn't want to say anything. Didn't want to slow you down."
Every weapon in Marcus's group snapped up, aimed at Peyton's head. The movement was instant, professional, unanimous.
Jill's pistol came up just as fast—aimed at Alice.
"Back off," Jill said, voice hard. "Now."
"He's infected," Alice said, not lowering her weapon. "You know what happens next. The virus spreads. He turns. We put him down now, or he kills someone later."
"He's my partner," Jill said. "You want to shoot him, you go through me first."
Standoff. Six guns on Peyton and Jill. One gun on Alice. The math wasn't good, but Jill didn't care. She'd seen enough death today. She wasn't losing her partner without a fight.
Marcus stepped forward, his weapon still aimed but his expression thoughtful. "The T-virus has an antidote. Blue creates the infection, green cures it. We had six doses when we escaped the Hive."
Jill's heart leaped. "Then—"
"We used all six," Marcus continued. "Four of us were infected. Two took it as a preventative. Every dose is gone. The only thing left in that case is pure virus—five vials of the stuff that caused all this." He looked at Peyton. "I'm sorry. But you've got maybe an hour. Two at most. After that, you won't be you anymore."
Peyton sagged against a tombstone. "I figured."
Jill lowered her weapon slowly. The others did the same.
"I'm sorry," she said to Marcus. "I thought—"
"It's fine," Marcus interrupted. "You were protecting your partner. I respect that." He glanced at Alice. "Put the guns down. If he turns, we'll deal with it then. Until that happens, he's one of us."
Alice hesitated, then nodded. The weapons lowered.
"Thank you," Jill said quietly.
Marcus shrugged. "Everyone deserves a chance to—"
"What!" Terry's scream cut through the cemetery.
They spun around.
The graves were moving.
Corpses—rotting, skeletal things that had been buried weeks or months or years ago—clawed their way up through the soil. Coffin lids splintered. Bony hands grasped at the earth. Dozens of them. Hundreds.
"Jesus Christ," Ryan breathed. "The virus got into the graves."
"How deep does this thing spread?" Matt demanded.
"Deep enough," Marcus said. He raised his rifle. "Everyone move! Back to the street!"
The first zombie cleared the grave—a shambling corpse in a moldering suit, half its face gone. Marcus put a bullet through its skull. It dropped.
But there were more. So many more.
"Suppressing fire!" Alice shouted. "Fighting retreat!"
They opened up. The cemetery lit up with muzzle flashes, the crack of gunfire echoing off tombstones. Zombies fell—already damaged, already decayed, they went down easily. But the numbers kept growing.
"Keep moving!" Jill ordered, walking backwards, firing controlled bursts. Terry stayed in the middle of the group, camera still clutched to her chest but forgotten now. Peyton limped along, firing one-handed, determined to pull his weight for as long as he could.
They reached the cemetery gates as the horde closed in. Marcus was the last through, laying down covering fire while the others cleared the street beyond.
"Go!" he shouted. "I'm right behind you!"
They ran. Behind them, the zombie army followed—slow, relentless, inevitable.
But the living were faster.
For now.
End of Chapter 52