Capítulo 2: Chapter 1
Captain John Price's eyes fluttered open, greeted by the dappled sunlight filtering through the dense canopy above. The earthy scent of the forest floor filled his nostrils as he pushed himself up, wincing at the stiffness in his muscles. His mind raced, trying to piece together how he had ended up in this unfamiliar woodland.
Instinctively, he conducted a quick assessment of his gear. His trusted HK433C assault rifle, known in some circles as the Kilo 141, was slung securely across his chest. The weight of his M1911 sidearm rested comfortably in its holster on his thigh. A combat knife was sheathed on his vest, and he felt the familiar bulk of fragmentation grenades attached to his belt. His attire was standard for a mission: a boonie hat shielding his head, a durable soft-shell jacket, tactical gloves, and reinforced boots. Everything was in place, yet nothing made sense.
"Where the bloody hell am I?" Price muttered to himself, scanning the surroundings for any sign of civilization or a clue to his predicament. The forest was eerily silent, save for the occasional rustle of leaves.
Determined to find answers, he began moving cautiously through the underbrush, eyes and ears alert for any potential threats. After what felt like hours, he stumbled upon a small, weathered cabin nestled among the trees. Its windows were grimy, and the door hung slightly ajar, creaking softly in the breeze.
Price approached the cabin with deliberate silence, pushing the door open with the barrel of his rifle. The interior was dimly lit, dust particles dancing in the shafts of light that pierced through the cracks in the walls. A quick sweep revealed no immediate danger.
He then first went to the kitchen to find something edible. Looking around, he found a dusty, cobweb-filled cabinet; inside it were three canned goods and two bottles of water. Price grabbed them and placed them on the kitchen table just beside the cabinet. He then took a small backpack that he had found as he made his way to the kitchen and stuffed the canned goods and two bottles of water inside.
With the backpack on his back, Price walked out of the kitchen and went upstairs. There he saw two doors, which he assumed were the family owners' bedrooms. He entered one of the bedrooms. Inside, he noticed the worn-out color pink wall of the room, with posters that were torn, and with no valuable items inside he exited and went to the other room. Upon entering, he saw three bodies—an elderly man and woman, and a teenage girl at the center. They were positioned in a way that both parents were hugging their daughter. Beside the man, he saw a Glock 19 Gen 5, a good gun for home defense.
Price walked out of the room and found himself in the living room. There he saw a rickety wooden table and slowly approached it. On the table lay a map, its edges frayed and yellowed with age.
On the map, it read "The State of Georgia" in the US. He grew perplexed as to how he got here. He could still vividly remember him and Soap chasing Shepherd on a zodiac boat, then downing the Pave Low helicopter by shooting at its rotors. After overshooting when the zodiac boat crashed, he went as fast as he could to find the helicopter's crash site; there he saw Shepherd cocking his .44 Magnum and aiming the gun at Soap's head. Price clenched his fist, remembering how Soap nearly died, and him failing to disarm Shepherd successfully. He subconsciously touched his forehead with his left hand to see if there was a scar from the bullet wound. It pained him how he failed; he was Captain Price, he was not supposed to fail. It should have been Shepherd lying on the ground, eyes widened with fear and a bullet wound on the forehead. He just hoped that Soap finished the job, Price muttered to himself, that he would be avenged and everyone from his team who died.
Price could only sigh, as the situation he found himself in was beyond him. Beside the map lay an old newspaper, the headline catching his eye: "Global Outbreak Causes Mass Panic." It stated that the virus first started in Europe from a laboratory in France. He also read that the President ordered Martial Law and plans of the military to quell the Walkers. The accompanying images showed grotesque, decaying figures attacking civilians.
"Walkers?" Price whispered, skimming through the article. It detailed an apocalyptic event where the dead reanimated, causing society to collapse.
Furrowing his brow, Price folded the map and tucked it into his pocket, taking the newspaper along. He needed more information, but one thing was clear: he was in a world vastly different from the one he knew, and survival would require every ounce of his training and wits.
Steeling himself, Captain Price stepped back into the forest, the weight of the unknown pressing heavily upon him.
Capítulo 3: Chapter 2
Leaves rustled softly underfoot as Price moved through the forest, each step deliberate and measured. His boots pressed into the earth with a muted crunch, but he kept his weight distributed to minimize noise. Years of experience made the action second nature. The air was thick with the scent of pine and damp moss, and the canopy above filtered the midday light into scattered golden beams. He paused, crouching slightly, his sharp eyes scanning the area for movement. Nothing yet. He let out a quiet breath and continued onward.
He pulled the map from his pocket, unfolding it with practiced efficiency. The previous owners of the cabin had marked their location on the map, encircling it with a red pen. Price muttered under his breath, studying the faded gridlines. The location matched where he was—more or less. From this point, he'd studied a railway line that ran a few clicks west. The station at its terminus caught his eye. He had circled it back in the cabin as a place to investigate.
"Setting up a sanctuary in a train station might not be the worst idea," he thought, his mind instinctively weighing pros and cons. Price had a knack for assessing tactical positions, and this one had promise. Limited access points meant he could funnel attackers—or these "walkers"—into chokeholds, making them easier to handle. Elevated platforms would give him the high ground—always an advantage in combat. The railway lines and fencing could act as natural barriers, slowing down threats and giving him time to react. Visibility, too, was in the station's favor; a wide-open view of the surroundings meant he'd spot danger early and plan accordingly.
It wasn't just the defensive perks. "Strategic location like that, built on a transport network," he mused. "Could use the tracks to guide recon missions, supply runs… hell, even an escape if it came to that." Resources were bound to be nearby—stations were often close to towns, water sources, or industrial hubs. And the structures themselves? Solid, reinforced. Concrete walls, steel beams. "Walkers wouldn't scratch it, and any other bastards would think twice before trying."
The possibilities stacked up in his head like a mission briefing. Train cars could serve as shelters, storage, even an infirmary if need be. Underground areas might offer safer sleeping quarters. "Long-term potential, as it has an expandable perimeter because they often have large yards or open areas that can be fortified to create a larger base with room for farming, vehicle repair, or additional living quarters." "It's maintenance could be a problem though" keeping a station secure requires manpower, supplies, and constant vigilance he concluded, his mind already mapping out defenses and routes. It wasn't perfect, but it was better than wandering aimlessly. Then he thought to himself if there's still such a thing as a sanctuary, a safe heaven in this godforsaken world.
He was jarred from his thoughts by a faint sound carried on the breeze—low, guttural moans "mmnghhhhh…" "Uhhhrrhhhhh...". His body tensed instantly, his instincts kicking in.
Quickly, he shifted to the cover of a massive pine tree, his broad frame blending seamlessly into the shadows.
Bloody walkers. Slow, brainless, but relentless as described from the paper he read back then. Easy to underestimate—until they've got their teeth in you. He gripped the handle of his rifle tighter. Best to stay sharp. One mistake, and it's game over. No second chances in this world.
Peering around the tree, he spotted them—two of them, shambling in their grotesque rhythm. The first walker's skin was a patchwork of decay, its milky eye fixed forward. The second lagged slightly behind, dragging its mangled leg like deadweight. Price frowned, calculating. He gripped his HK433C tightly, raising it just enough to be ready without making unnecessary noise. His finger hovered near the trigger as he weighed his options. He could take them out, quick and clean, but he had no idea what the sound might draw. These woods were quiet—too quiet—and a gunshot might bring more than he could handle. He needed to conserve his ammo anyway. He opted to use his combat knife, the worn leather of the hilt comforting in his hand
Two of them. Nothing I haven't handled before. But let's not get cocky, John. That's how people get killed. One at a time. Quick, clean, and quiet.
He waited, his breathing slow and controlled. When the second walker was just within range, Price moved like a striking viper. He stepped out from behind the pine and drove his boot into the chest of the trailing walker. The impact was solid, sending it sprawling into the brush with a heavy thud. Out of the fight for now, he thought, turning his attention to the first.
It lurched toward him, arms clawing at the air, its moan rising as it sensed prey. Price sidestepped its clumsy advance, the knife flashing in his hand. He drove the blade into the walker's chest, sinking it deep. The sound was sickening, a wet squelch that spoke of flesh long past its expiration date.
But the walker didn't stop. It kept coming, its jaws snapping hungrily. Price cursed under his breath, yanking the knife free and stabbing again, this time in its side. Still, it showed no reaction beyond stumbling briefly before lunging again.
Christ, these bastards just don't quit. Stabbing anywhere but the head's a waste of time. Gotta remember that. Old habits die hard… well, harder than these things, apparently.
As the walker lunged again, Price stepped in close, his military training taking over. He grabbed the back of its head, forcing it down, and angled the blade upward. The knife found the base of the skull, and he drove it in with brutal precision. This time, the walker dropped instantly, its body crumpling like a marionette with its strings cut.
Right. That's how it's done. He wiped the blade on its filthy clothes, muttering, "Persistent bugger."
The second walker was already staggering back to its feet, its gnarled hands reaching blindly for him. Price rolled his shoulders, stepping forward with purpose. One left. Keep it quiet, keep it quick. He ducked under its outstretched arms, closing the gap in an instant. This time, he didn't waste time with center mass. The knife plunged straight into the side of its head with a sickening crunch. The walker twitched, its jaw working soundlessly for a moment before slumping to the ground.
Price stepped back, scanning the area, his eyes sharp and searching. Two down. Quiet. That's the way to do it. Now, let's not stick around to see if they've got mates wandering about.
He sheathed his knife, taking a deep breath. The adrenaline coursing through his veins began to ebb, replaced by a gnawing sense of weariness. No time to rest, though. Rest gets you killed.
As he melted back into the shadows of the forest, his thoughts lingered on the absurdity of it all. This wasn't how I pictured myself after dying, thought i'd be with the devil himself seeping a lovely together. Trading bullets for blades, fighting the dead instead of the living. But at least it's a fight I know how to win. For now, anyway.
He adjusted his pace, moving steadily forward. One step at a time. Survive today. Worry about tomorrow when it comes.
The forest stretched endlessly in every direction, shadows growing long as the sun began to dip below the horizon. Price trudged on, knife in one hand, the other brushing branches aside as he moved. His every step was deliberate, heel to toe, avoiding dry twigs or anything else that might give his position away. He kept his ears open, listening for the groans of walkers or the distant echo of human voices—neither of which promised anything good.
"Railway track's still a day out, if my bearings are right," he thought, eyes scanning the landscape. "Could push on, but wandering through the woods at night's just askin' for trouble. Seen too many lads get sloppy after dark. No, better to stop, regroup, and keep my head about me tomorrow."
As the light faded further, Price spotted a small natural depression in the forest floor. It was tucked between a cluster of boulders, their sheer faces creating a natural wall on three sides, with just one way in or out. A pine tree arched overhead, its thick branches forming a natural canopy. The floor beneath was soft with fallen needles, and the space felt... secure.
"This'll do," he muttered under his breath, crouching low to examine the spot. He dragged his knife across the ground to clear out some debris, creating a flat area to sit. "Good cover. One entrance means I'll hear anything coming. No walkers sneakin' up on me tonight."
Price unslung his small backpack and lowered himself against the boulder, his shoulders settling into the cool stone. He pulled out a few essentials: his firestarter, one of two dented cans of food, and a bottle of water, half-full from the day's trek.
He struck the firestarter carefully, the faint spark catching on a small pile of pine needles he'd gathered. Soon, a small flame flickered to life, casting faint orange light over his weathered face. He kept it low, feeding it just enough wood to cook the contents of the can without sending smoke up into the sky. "No sense advertisin' myself to every nutter or walker within a mile."
Once the food was warm, Price peeled back the lid of the can, the faint metallic scent mixing with the tang of the forest air. It wasn't much—just some mushy beans swimming in salty broth—but it was enough to keep his strength up. He ate slowly, deliberately, chasing each bite with a small sip of water. He eyed the bottle as he drank, stopping when it was half empty. "That'll have to last 'til tomorrow. No telling when I'll find more."
When he finished, he rubbed the can clean with a scrap of cloth and buried it in the soft dirt to avoid leaving a scent trail. He then knelt by the fire and snuffed it out, scattering the embers with a stick until the last glow faded into the darkness.
Price's eyes shifted to the tree above him. It was sturdy but not too tall, with branches wide enough to hold his weight. He climbed up carefully, his boots finding purchase on the rough bark. Settling onto a thick branch, he pulled a small coil of army rope from his pack and tied himself to the trunk, looping it around his waist and shoulders.
"Not exactly five-star lodgin', but it'll keep me from fallin' and breakin' my bloody neck," he thought grimly. Leaning his head back against the bark, he allowed his eyes to close.
The forest sang its nocturnal tune: the distant hoot of an owl, the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze. Price's grip tightened briefly on the handle of his knife before sleep finally took him.
The first pale light of dawn broke through the canopy, painting the world in shades of grey. Price stirred, his hand instinctively going to his knife as he woke. The rope held firm; he hadn't fallen in the night. Untying himself, he climbed down with practiced ease, stretching his back as his boots hit the ground.
"Right then. Time to move."
He set out again, the forest gradually thinning as the day wore on. After hours of steady walking, the treeline broke, revealing a stretch of railway tracks cutting through the landscape. Price paused, squinting down the line.
Off to the side, a large weathered sign stood at an angle, its bold lettering catching the sunlight:
"SANCTUARY FOR ALL. COMMUNITY FOR ALL. THOSE WHO ARRIVE SURVIVE."
Price frowned, stepping closer to examine the sign. The words looked inviting enough, but the darker stains on the edges—red, faded and dried—told a different story. He ran a hand over his beard, his mind turning.
"Sanctuary, eh? Sounds too good to be true. And in this world, when somethin' sounds too good to be true... it usually is or not."
Still, he couldn't ignore the faint hope stirring in the back of his mind. Supplies were running thin, and a place like this might be worth investigating. He adjusted the strap of his backpack, his eyes narrowing as he stared down the railway.
"One way to find out. Just have to keep sharp."
Price set off down the tracks, he travels at the outskirts of the forest to keep himself hidden, his hand resting at his trusted HK433C assault rifle. The sign loomed behind him as he disappeared into the horizon, each step measured, each sense on high alert.
REFLEXIONES DE LOS CREADORES
Tactless_Knight1
Tactless_Knight1
I added a few things in this chapter after uploading it my bad.
Have some idea about my story? Comment it and let me know.
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