Eliminate the approaching zombies by shooting them down!
The streets reek of rot and rusted blood. You crouch behind a splintered storefront, the last pulse of life in this graveyard of concrete and corpses. They shamble in the daylight now—sun-scorched skin sloughing off bone, milky eyes rolling toward every creak of your boot. You count six between you and the abandoned ambulance across the square. Its cab glints with promises: keys in the ignition, a half-charged radio, maybe a shotgun wedged between seats. Your machete’s dull edge won’t hold. Neither will the nail-studded bat leaning against your thigh. You need that ambulance. Need the roar of an engine to drown the guttural moans closing in from alleys, the ones that never sleep, never starve, never stop. Your fingers graze the flare gun in your coat—one signal shot left. Burn a path through the dead, or light the sky and pray someone’s left to see it. Either way, you’re out of time. The wind shifts. A dozen necks snap toward your hiding place.
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