As the caboose door opens, Bill and Francis step out from the small room, their footsteps crunching against the gravel. The pre-dawn air hangs thick with tension, every shadow and distant noise a potential threat. Ahead, the faint silhouette of the farmhouse rises beyond the cornfield, but between them and safety lies a whole host of problems.
Bill grunts, steadying his rifle. His old body had taken a beating, but his eyes remain sharp. "We push hard, no stopping," he mutters, his voice gravelly but firm. "Keep up, Francis."
"Yeah, yeah, old man, I’m right behind you," Francis replies, casting a quick glance behind them. His tone is casual, but the grip on his shotgun betrays his nerves.
They move cautiously, knowing the cornfield ahead will be crawling with infected. The sun still hasn’t risen, and the moonlight barely filters through the fog, making it hard to see more than a few feet in front of them.
Suddenly, the groaning of infected rises around them—first just a few scattered sounds, then a full-blown crescendo. Without warning, a horde rushes from behind, their shrieks echoing off the hills.
"Shit! We just started!" Francis yells, spinning around to fire into the mass of bodies charging toward them. Bill opens up, his rifle spitting bullets with precise, calculated shots, but even he can’t get them all. The horde presses in, forcing the two survivors back toward the boxcar.
“Keep moving! Don’t let ‘em surround us!” Bill shouts, trying to fend off the swarm. He stumbles slightly, his wound slowing him down. Francis steps in, blasting away a pair of infected that leap for Bill’s back.
The two press through the chaos, climbing over the boxcar and scrambling down the other side. More infected charge from the front, drawn by the commotion. In the confusion, Bill’s leg buckles, sending him to one knee.
Before Francis can react, a tank crashes through the wreckage ahead. Its roar shakes the very ground beneath their feet, and Bill is barely able to roll out of the way before the massive creature slams its fists into the earth where he had been moments before.
“Bill!” Francis yells, his heart racing. He fires wildly at the tank, trying to draw its attention as it bears down on the old soldier.
Bill grits his teeth, struggling to push himself up. His hands tremble around the rifle as he fires into the tank’s thick hide, each shot buying him a few more seconds. But it’s not enough—the tank’s fist swings wide, knocking Bill clear off his feet and sending him crashing into the side of the train car.
Francis charges in, unloading shell after shell into the tank’s back. With a furious roar, the tank turns toward him, and for a terrifying moment, Francis thinks it’s over. But Bill, bloodied and bruised, pulls himself up and empties the last of his magazine into the tank’s head.
The creature topples with a final, earth-shaking thud.
Francis rushes over to Bill, hauling him up. “You good?” he asks, his voice tight with concern.
Bill wipes blood from his face and grunts, “Still breathin’. Let’s keep movin’.”
They push on, adrenaline and survival instinct keeping them going as they cross the decaying path into the cornfield. The dense stalks close in around them, every rustle and whisper unnerving. They don’t see the infected until they’re practically on top of them, forcing close-quarter combat in the choking darkness.
A Boomer explodes nearby, dousing them in bile and summoning another horde. The infected crash through the corn, their snarls and shrieks cutting through the night air. Bill and Francis are back-to-back, fighting off the seemingly endless wave as they trudge forward toward the farmhouse, their vision clouded by bile.
Finally, they break free of the cornfield, reaching the yard in front of the farmhouse. But there’s no time to rest. Francis hears the familiar sobbing before he sees her—a Witch, sitting right in the middle of the path they need to cross.
“Goddamn it,” Francis mutters. “We don’t have time for this.”
“Keep your distance,” Bill warns, his voice strained. “We’ll go around.”
They move carefully, keeping low as they circle the Witch. But just as they’re about to pass, an infected comes charging from behind, its foot steps alerting the Witch. With a blood-curdling scream, she leaps toward Francis, claws outstretched.
“FRANCIS!” Bill fires wildly, but the Witch is too fast, tackling Francis to the ground. Her claws tear into him for a moment, and for that moment, it feels like it’s over. But Francis, adrenaline pumping through his veins, kicks the Witch off, rolling to his feet and blasting her point-blank with his shotgun in the face. The Witch screeches and falls limp.
Francis, bloodied and panting, looks over at Bill, who gives him a grim nod. “Nice shot.”
They stumble into the farmhouse, slamming the door shut behind them. But they both know it won’t hold for long. Bill quickly gets on the radio in the living room, calling in for the military rescue. The crackling voice on the other end confirms—it’ll take ten minutes.
“Ten minutes? We’re not gonna last ten minutes, Bill!” Francis yells, reloading his shotgun as the infected start pounding on the doors and windows.
Bill doesn’t answer, instead hobbling up the stairs to the second floor. “Get upstairs. We’ll hold ‘em there!".
They barricade themselves in, the sounds of the infected growing louder. The walls shake as the horde slams into the farmhouse, breaking through doors and windows downstairs. They hold their ground in the narrow hallway, each gunshot pushing the infected back for a few precious seconds. But it’s not enough—they’re being overwhelmed.
Suddenly, the ground shakes again. A second tank, its roars deafening, barrels through the front of the house, splintering wood and sending infected flying. It climbs the stairs, its eyes locked on Bill.
“Not again!” Francis shouts, firing wildly at the beast, but it charges straight at them. Bill stands his ground, but he’s slowing down, the pain too much to hide anymore.
The tank swings a massive fist, but Francis dives in front of Bill, pushing him out of the way just in time. The tank roars in frustration as Francis empties his shotgun into its face, finally bringing it down in the narrow confines of the hallway.
Both men are bruised, bloodied, and exhausted, but as the roar of the tank fades, so does the sound of the infected. The promised military APC arrives outside with the screech of its tires, its floodlights cutting through the darkness.
“Come on, Bill!” Francis yells, pulling the old man to his feet. They scramble out of the house, fighting through the last remnants of the horde, and throw themselves into the back of the APC.
As the doors slam shut behind them, Bill slumps against the wall, breathing heavily. Francis sits beside him, staring at the bloodied mess they’ve become.
“That was close,” Francis mutters.
“Too close,” Bill agrees, his voice rough but steady.
As the APC speeds away, leaving the burning farmhouse behind, the two men sit in silence. They’d made it—barely. But for now, they were alive, and that was all that mattered.
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Cutting Losses
FanfictionIn a world devastated by the infected, Francis and Bill are all that's left of their group. Zoey and Louis are gone, leaving behind an emptiness that both men struggle to cope with. As they push forward through the ruins of what used to be, Francis...
