Okay, hopefully this is one story of many. Not too much happens in this one, but things really pick up in the next chapter. Remember, any criticism is appreciated.

Chapter 1

2nd Lt. John Danden stood beside his fellow soldiers, emptying clips into the oncoming horde of infected. Above, crows and flyers circled, waiting for their respective prey. The infected stumbled towards him with deceptive speed. A burst of fire from the soldier on his right cut out the legs of an infected, he swiftly fired a burst into its head, nearly decapitating it, it's head hanging from what remained of it's neck, sickly red blood poured onto the ground. The infected tried to crawl towards them for a few more seconds, before it died of blood loss, those behind it tripping over the corpse.

A similar scene was repeated throughout the hoard, as the leaders died and tripped those behind them. The soldiers continued to fire, stopping only to reload. John soon fell into the familiar rhythm, fire three rounds per walker, take out ten, reload, repeat. A similar cadence was carried out along the line of soldiers. The muzzle flash illuminating the advancing line of infected. The screams and moans of the infected creating their own rhythm, a counterpoint to the steady beat of the soldiers weapons. Behind the line of soldiers the steady bass of a tank's fire helped maintain the order of the soldiers. This was the music Blackwatch played.

The beat was all too familiar to John and his fellow soldiers. In fact, this battle had been raging for nearly a week. Every hour, when the line was about to empty their last clips, a new line stepped forward. As the last three round burst left the barrels, the replacements took aim, waited one beat, and opened fire with their own burst. The exhausted line would step back to refuel and perhaps get some food. In four hours time, they would be called on again. The transition went without a single break in the rhythm.

As John retreated to the perimeter set up behind the tank, he again pondered the likelihood of survival. This was the sixth day of fighting, and they had made no apparent progress. No matter how many they cut down, there were always more to take their place. An endless legion of infected. In a way, he supposed they were lucky. This far into the Red Zone, it's a wonder they hadn't encountered anything more dangerous than walkers. But still, they didn't have the supplies to last another two days, let alone another week. And Command claimed that they would receive no reinforcements unless they encountered something truly dangerous.

They had set up a makeshift outpost in one of the more solid buildings. It was a relatively small, two story affair. Command stated that anything bigger would be a security hazard, as they didn't have the men available to maintain a larger perimeter. The inside was simple, stripped of most furniture. But there was a desk situated in the main floor lobby. Another room to the right was the mess hall/bunkhouse. And a staircase to the left lead to the second floor, where the 'Command Outpost' was located. As well as more room for the soldiers.

He walked towards the desk, behind which another soldier was posted, acting as a 'secretary'. After exchanging salutes, he asked "Has there been any change?".

"Well," the clerk replied "that depends. Our supplies of ammunition continue to drop and the line of infected continues to maintain the attack. We're on the defensive. Sooner or later, we're going to have to either retreat, or make a supply run."

"What about reinforcements? Have they agreed?" He asked, knowing the answer already.

"No." The man replied simply. John saluted again before walking away. Muttering obscenities under his breath. They had requested reinforcements seven times in the past five days. And they had been denied seven times. Don't those idiots understand? The base is going to be overrun. And we're all going to die. He swore again.

He made his way to the mess hall to grab a ration. Observing the other soldiers around him. Damn, morale is non-existent and cold rations aren't fucking helping. After he got his ration, he made his way to his bunk. He saw his bunkmate and pretty much only friend napping in the top bunk. "Hey," he said gruffly "you're in my bunk, Twitch.". On his part, Twitch just gave him the finger before rolling over the side of the bunk to land on his feet. He tossed his ration onto the mat before pulling himself up. He removed his helmet and flopped down.

Twitch, who was now situated in the bottom bunk, closed his eyes and asked "Well?" John didn't need to ask what he meant. This had become a repetitive question over the last few days.

"They aren't going to help us." John said darkly. Twitch sighed. Same question, same answer.

"Those assholes are going to get us all killed." Twitch said, a hint of anger in his voice.

"I know. They know. It doesn't matter to them. As far as they're concerned, we're fodder."

After a few seconds, Twitch asked "What should we do?"

"Dunno. I guess we keep fighting."

"Keep fighting?" Twitch asked angrily "We're going to die! I don't know about you, but that isn't exactly my fucking goal right now!" John's eyebrows raised. Twitch rarely swore. And if he saw fit to do so now, the situation must be worse than he thought.

"You have a better idea?" John asked.

"We retreat. There's a full base west of here. It's not far. We could easily make it." Twitch said confidently.

"Incase you haven't noticed, there's also a massive horde of infected between us and them. I'd rather not try to run that." Twitch grunted. And John knew his eye was twitching. As it always did when he was frustrated. "Shut up an' sleep, Twitch. You've got duty in another hour or so. Try not to die." Twitch didn't respond. Idiot. John finished his ration and chucked the packaging. He then closed his eyes and drifted to sleep. Knowing he might very well be dead later.