The Bites

Chapter 11

Restless and sleep-deprived, Brea sat in the dim room, her mind churning with unanswered questions. The passage of time seemed obscured in the perpetual twilight until the room's lights brightened once more. A new vial of nutrient liquid materialized, and she obediently consumed it.

The door opened, revealing a corridor bathed in sterile light. Brea cautiously stepped into a room that deviated from the familiar horrors of the forest. Instead, an array of weapons adorned the walls, each with a haunting familiarity. Without hesitation, she selected a weapon she recognized—a cruel-looking spiked mace—and took her stance.

The door slid open again, but this time, it wasn't the eerie silence of the forest that greeted her. It was the relentless onslaught of the undead. Zombies flooded in, their ghastly moans echoing through the confined space. Brea's breath quickened, her heightened agility ready to face the impending onslaught.

The spiked mace felt reassuringly heavy in her hands as she swung it with practised precision. The cruel spikes tore through flesh and bone with gruesome efficiency, leaving a trail of gore in their wake. Each strike was a macabre symphony of destruction, the sickening sound of skulls cracking mingling with the moans of the undead.

The stench of decay filled the air as the zombies closed in, their relentless hunger pushing her to the brink. "Why are they throwing this at me?" Brea wondered aloud, her agile movements and calculated strikes a testament to her unwilling resilience against the undead tide.

As she fought, her mind raced with thoughts of the mysterious force that orchestrated her existence. Was this another trial, another layer of the experiment? The weapons on the wall, the zombies' relentless assault – all seemed like orchestrated chaos.

"Come on, Brea, you can do this," she muttered, a mix of self-encouragement and defiance. The weapons on the wall were a grim reminder of her challenges, a visual representation of the twisted experiments that defined her reality.

With each swing of the spiked mace, Brea danced between the weapons on display, her movements guided by instinct and survival expertise. The undead seemed endless, a relentless tide that tested her strength and resilience.

The metallic clang of the mace against the decaying flesh reverberated through the room as Brea battled the relentless horde of zombies. Each swing was a calculated move aimed at hindering the undead monstrosities that seemed to multiply with every passing moment.

With heightened agility, Brea gracefully sidestepped lunges and dodged clumsy swipes, her movements a deadly ballet amidst the chaos. The room became a battleground, shadows dancing along with her as she fought for survival.

The air was thick with the stench of decay, a putrid reminder of the horrors she faced. Brea's breaths came in ragged gasps, a mix of adrenaline and desperation as she fought off the undead onslaught. Her eyes, wide with intensity, scanned the room for any sign of weakness in her foes.

The spiked mace, her only companion in this macabre dance, became an extension of her will. Each strike aimed at the head attempted to silence the moans that echoed through the confined space. "This can't be real," she muttered to herself, the disbelief mingling with the grim determination to survive.

As she fought, Brea couldn't escape the gruesome reality of her actions. The once-human creatures are now reduced to abominations, their gory demise at her hands unfolding with each swing. The visceral nature of the battle left her grappling with a mix of horror and acceptance.

Sweat dripped down her forehead, mixing with the blood and grime that adorned her face. The room echoed with the sounds of her struggle, the clattering of the mace against bones and decaying flesh, a haunting symphony of survival.