Storm of Steel

"Progress"

A strange word in the apocalypse. Yet, against all odds, the world kept moving. More importantly, the world kept fighting.

Story Start

"Move."

Thomas spoke firmly to Elena, tapping his newly acquired Halligan bar against a nearby shelf. The deliberate noise echoed through the silent ruins, baiting the thing lurking in the shadows.

It responded immediately.

The infected bolted toward him, its speed unnatural.

"What the fuck?" Thomas muttered, stunned by its appearance.

Its body was dry—almost mummified—like every ounce of moisture had been sucked away. Thick fungal growths sprouted from its skull, their tendrils writhing, reaching, twitching as if sniffing the air. As it moved, the sound of brittle skin cracking filled the silence, accompanied by a wet, gurgling rasp from somewhere deep in its throat.

Thomas tightened his grip. As the creature lunged, he swung.

Steel met flesh with a sickening crunch. The impact sent the infected sprawling, but Thomas' hands trembled from the force of the blow. The fungal plating covering its head was like striking hardwood.

Before it could rise, I stepped in, driving my spear through a gap in the fungal armor. A wet crunch. The infected twitched, then stilled.

Thomas flexed his fingers, shaking off the sting. "What the hell was that thing? Felt like I was bashing through armor."

I prodded the fungal growth with my spear, uneasy. He was right. It was solid. Worse—this thing wasn't just infested. It was being consumed.

And something told me it wasn't the only one.

Elena stepped forward, eyeing the lifeless body. She prodded it cautiously with her axe, reluctant to touch it. "Is this the nature of the infection?"

"It would explain a lot," I said.

Thomas frowned. "What do you mean?"

I exhaled slowly, the memory sending a shiver down my spine. "Back at the hospital, I had a fellow patient in my room. I think we knew each other for two days, maybe less. Then, out of nowhere, he got worse. And I mean worse."

Elena's expression darkened. "Could the infection be airborne? Spread through fungal spores?"

Thomas shuddered at the thought, shaking his head. "Then why aren't we one of them?"

"Maybe it depends on the person," Elena mused. Then, a realization struck her. "Now that I think about it… back at the hospital, the only patients who turned were the ones who were already dying. Terminally ill, really sick—the infection took them first."

Thomas raised an eyebrow. "So besides bites, spores can spread it too? But only if you're weak enough?" He let out a mirthless chuckle. "Great. As if we didn't have enough to worry about. Now we have to fear the damn flu?"

Elena's concern deepened. "If that theory is true, we need to take care of ourselves. Rest, eat—whatever keeps us strong."

I nodded. "Either way, staying healthy is our best bet."

Thomas exhaled and rubbed his face. "Yeah… you're not wrong."

Thomas pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. "Alright, back to the reason we came here—to loot. And this time, we stick close." He tightened his grip on his weapon, his posture tense.

Minutes passed as we combed through the storage room, sifting through a mix of junk and valuables. Some things were worthless, but others… others could keep us alive.

Eventually, we regrouped in the room where we had spent the night.

Thomas glanced over the pile of supplies and gave a quick rundown. "So, here's what we got—some extra turnout gear, which means we're all kitted out now. A duffel bag stuffed with food, enough to last three days. And one flashlight. Just one." His expression darkened. "Honestly, I expected more, considering that the storage room was locked up."

I shrugged. "At least we found something."

As we sorted through our haul, a weight settled in my chest—something wasn't right. The air felt heavier, almost suffocating.

Elena let out a slow breath, gripping her axe tighter. "True… but we have another problem." She reached for the curtain hesitantly, as if she already knew what she would see.

With a sharp pull, she peeled it back. My stomach dropped.

Shapes moved beyond the glass. Dozens of them.

Elena peered through the curtain, her breath shallow. "I don't like this, we're surrounded," she murmured.

A low thump echoed from outside—distant but heavy. Then another. Rhythmic. The sound of something massive shifting.

A flicker of motion beyond the station—dark figures moving fast. My breath caught.

"Shit," Thomas whispered, eyes locked on the silhouettes. "Infected?"

I squinted. No—too coordinated, too precise. Not infected. But that didn't mean we were safe.

Then, the first shot rang out.

Bang!

My instincts screamed at me to duck as rapid gunfire erupted outside, tearing through the silence.

Thomas ducked instinctively as well. "What the hell is happening?" He shot a look at Elena, who was still staring out the window.

Her breath hitched. Then, with wide eyes, she gasped.

"It's…" Her voice wavered, emotion swelling in her throat.

Tears gathered at the edges of her eyes.

"It's the military."

"Holy shit, really?!" Thomas' face lit up at the answer. "Then we better get moving! Get that turnout gear on, now!"

Elena nodded, a smile breaking through as tears streamed down her face. "Roger that!"

Thomas slung the duffel bag over his shoulder, gripping the flashlight as he secured his gear.

"How close are the vehicles?" I asked.

"Right outside! Front of the station!" Elena shouted over the distant gunfire.

We exchanged a glance before nodding in unison, adrenaline kicking in. The gunfire outside roared, the deep, rhythmic bursts of mounted machine guns tearing through the infected.

"That's an M240," Thomas grinned, his voice almost reverent. "Music to my ears."

A deafening burst of machine-gun fire rattled the station windows, cutting through the rising tension. Muffled shouts echoed over the roar of battle. Then— boom—a grenade detonated nearby, sending a shockwave through the building.

Thomas didn't hesitate. He slammed his boot against the door, nearly tearing it from its rusted hinges. Elena sprinted ahead, gripping her axe, while Thomas clutched the duffel bag. My injured leg screamed in protest, but I pushed forward. Falling behind wasn't an option.

The parking lot was an inferno of chaos. A Humvee's gunner unleashed hell, sweeping through a flood of infected that clawed toward the soldiers with unnatural speed. Bodies jerked and collapsed under the relentless barrage, but more kept coming.

One soldier pivoted toward us, his rifle snapping up—then his eyes widened in shock. Survivors.

One of the soldiers, still laying down fire with his M4, keyed his radio. "Contact, three o'clock! Civilians located! Orders?!"

A burst of static. Then a calm but authoritative voice crackled through the radio—the Captain. "Solid copy, Delta. Confirm civilian status and extract. Priority remains securing the sector."

The soldier hesitated. "Possible infected, sir—how do we proceed?"

A brief pause. Then the Captain's voice, firm and decisive: "Rules of Engagement stand. Civilians take priority. If they turn, you deal with it. Copy?"

The Lieutenant, standing near the lead Humvee, turned to the Sergeant in the field. "Get them out of there, now!"

The Sergeant on the ground flicked his safety to semi, his sharp gaze scanning us. Then, a curt nod.

"You heard the man—MOVE YOUR ASSES! Load up, NOW!"