Zombie survivor

[56] Knight on motorcycle

The arena was a madhouse. After nearly an hour of the contestants' rotation tactics, the bloodthirsty crowd had grown restless, their anger boiling over as they shouted and jeered. The boos had intensified, and soon, people were chucking bottles, scraps of food, and debris into the arena, their frustration palpable.

Trev, already running on fumes, didn't see the glass bottle hurtling toward him until it was too late. It struck him hard on the side of the head with a sickening crack. He stumbled, his vision blurring as he collapsed onto the dusty ground, the roar of the crowd fading into a dull roar as he struggled to stay conscious.

"Shit! Trev's down!" Jordan yelled, his voice barely cutting through the chaos.

Jean, who was a few meters away, didn't hesitate. He sprinted toward Trev, gripping his makeshift pole tightly as he saw a zombie lurching toward his fallen friend, its decayed mouth open, ready to bite.

"Get up, Trev!" Jean shouted, his voice strained as he swung his weapon down on the zombie's head. The pole connected with a sickening crunch, splitting the creature's skull. The zombie crumpled to the ground, but another immediately staggered forward, driven by the scent of fresh blood.

Jean's heart stopped as he realized the face of the new zombie—twisted and decayed as it was—belonged to the woman who had tried to throw him off the tower earlier. Her dead eyes fixed on him with a cold, unnatural hunger, her mouth opening in a low, guttural growl.

"Jean, watch out!" Evan shouted from across the arena.

The zombie-woman lunged at Jean, yanking his weapon from his hands with surprising strength. Jean stumbled back, his hands going up instinctively as she pounced on him, pinning him to the ground. Her rotting face loomed over him, her mouth inches from his throat.

"Get the fuck off me!" Jean yelled, struggling beneath her weight.

But the zombie only pressed down harder, her nails digging into his shoulders as her jaws snapped, closer and closer. Just as Jean felt the cold, rancid breath against his neck, Akira appeared beside them, her face set with deadly focus. She drove a broken metal pipe into the zombie's eye, pushing with all her strength until the pipe punctured through the skull.

The zombie-woman let out a horrible, wet gurgle and went limp, collapsing onto Jean. He shoved her off, gasping as he scrambled to his feet, his eyes meeting Akira's.

"You okay?" she asked, her voice tight with concern.

Jean nodded, swallowing hard. "Yeah... yeah, thanks. That was way too close."

But they had no time to catch their breath. The zombies were closing in, the crowd's taunts and thrown objects making it even harder to keep their focus. The group was being boxed in, their rotation tactic failing as exhaustion overtook them.

"This is it," Jordan muttered, raising his weapon with shaking hands. "We're done for."

Suddenly, a new sound pierced the din of the arena—a low, distant vroom that cut through the chaos like a warning shot.

Jean whipped his head around, his eyes widening as he spotted a glint of metal at the far end of the arena. "What the...?"

There was a rapid series of gunshots, the echo of bullets slicing through the air, and the crowd's noise shifted from mocking cheers to confused murmurs. The zombies began to drop, one after another, as precise shots hit them square in the head.

And then, bursting through the open side of the arena like a one-woman cavalry, came Morgan on her motorcycle, her leather jacket flapping in the wind, a cigarette clenched between her teeth. She fired off several rounds from her handgun, each bullet finding its mark with deadly accuracy. With a practiced flick, she pulled the pin on a grenade, tossing it toward the bleachers packed with the crowd.