The air was thick with the scent of burning wood and blood. The village had been reduced to smoldering ruins, its last screams now nothing but echoes in the wind. General Viktor 'Bloodfang' Kruger stood amidst the carnage, his breath steady, his grip firm on the blade that had carved through dozens of lives.
His warpath was far from over.
He crouched beside a fallen enemy, his gloved fingers wrapping around the soldier's dog tags. The insignia confirmed what Eva 'Black Widow' Morales had suspected earlier—these were not simple survivors. They were part of a hidden militia, trained and supplied. Someone in the shadows was resisting the undead overlord's reign.
Kruger smirked. "Good. Let them come."
A sudden rustling from behind. Instinct took over.
In one swift motion, Kruger whirled around, blade flashing in the dying sunlight. A lone rebel lunged at him, a desperate attempt to avenge his fallen comrades. The fool had no chance. Kruger sidestepped and drove his knife into the man's ribcage, lifting him off the ground before tossing his lifeless body aside like garbage.
From the distance, Sergeant Darius 'Hellhound' Rook let out a whistle. "You're enjoying yourself, General."
Kruger wiped the blood from his blade, his expression unreadable. "Killing is an art, Sergeant. Some paint with bullets. I prefer a more personal touch."
Hellhound laughed, slinging his shotgun over his shoulder. "I'll stick to my lead and fire, thanks."
Before they could continue their grim work, a sharp whistle echoed through the ruins. Kruger's head snapped toward the sound. Eva stood near an old shack, motioning them over.
They approached, and inside the dimly lit space, a lone prisoner sat bound to a wooden post. His face was bruised, his uniform torn, but there was something about him that made Kruger pause. This one was different.
Eva leaned in. "He's the leader of this cell. Calls himself Lieutenant Harlan Quinn. He's been running guerrilla strikes against our forces."
Kruger eyed the man, his lips curling into something resembling amusement. "A fighter, then?"
Quinn spat blood onto the dirt at Kruger's feet. "Go to hell, butcher."
Kruger chuckled, stepping forward. "I've been there. It wasn't as fun as people think."
In a blur, Kruger's blade slashed through the air, cutting deep into Quinn's shoulder. The man gritted his teeth, refusing to scream.
Kruger knelt beside him, whispering coldly. "You will tell me who is supplying your resistance. Or I will make you beg for the end."
Quinn glared defiantly, his silence earning him another deep slash. Blood pooled at his feet.
The night stretched on, the screams of the rebel leader breaking the stillness. By morning, Kruger would have his answers—or another corpse.
The undead overlord's conquest continued.