Greg felt a sharp bolt of fear lance his gut, cutting into it with a frozen intensity, as he spied the vast palls of black smoke billowing into the gray skies. He gripped the steering wheel tighter, terror shooting through his psyche as ugly possibilities blossomed in his mind's eye. He envisioned the city and the base they made for overrun with the undead, razor teeth rending flesh and snapping bone. Gallons of blood, glistening and fresh. Kyra had a much cooler head. He heard her speak over the radio, attempting communication with Fort Jackson. “This is Fort Jackson, we hear you, Lance Corporal. Proceed to the south entrance, exit your vehicles and slowly enter the garage there,” a clipped voice replied. “Affirmative.” Kyra closed down the channel. Greg glanced over, peering at her briefly through the windows, her jeep just a few meters to the right of his. She caught him looking at her and flashed him a quick smile.
