He knew he was alone. His comrades were all gone. Only one remained. And he would do anything to protect them. But he too was gone. In the helicopter. Up and away.

He readied his weapon. The only other who hadn't left from the beginning. He prepared to join his comrades.

He hit one, another, a third, and a fourth. The rest were mowed down by the hail of bullets. He hated those glowing yellow eyes. All that moaning. He intended to change that. Many of the damned ran after him. All fell. No matter how close they came, they fell all the same. For every one that dropped, twenty shells fell with it.

Then the anger came. For the Red Army. For the Fist of Stalin. FOR EVERY ONE OF HIS COMRADES THAT FELL!

Then that one zombie came. Past his guard. Into his arm. He cried out in pain even as his sickle flashed with red. Then another and another. He shook them off and kept moving. Pain was a weakness. He had no weakness'. Not one.

Then he fell. The zombies ran past. Ignoring him. As if he was to be IGNORED! He pulled out his pistol and fired, kept firing until the end. He then fell. Fell into the most deepest and darkest pit there was in all of mankind. Until he woke up. And saw the German. With the most pained and mad eyes he could ever know. He now drank vodka. To drown out all the pain. All the pain. The undead are back now. All the pain. Now he will end this once and for all. And finally join his comrades for a mug of vodka.

All the pain...