He ran whilst panting up a storm.

Up and up and up the snowy mountain's slope.

He zigzagged around towering trees, exerting his already exhausted muscles, to desperately manoeuvre in ways that could potentially shake those undead bastards off his trail. The oversized expedition backpack he carried, as well as a smaller duffle bag that was strapped below its rear, weighed heftily along with his bulky clothes, not helping his movements in the slightest.

For a slight (and utterly delirious) moment, he was tempted to toss the bags aside to relieve himself of their burden. But that was hysterics and recklessness talking. Doing something so absurd was counterproductive at best. The bags contained his tools of trade and filters, which were all needed for his continual survival in this wretched, apocalyptic world. If he discarded them, he would end up dying from either the toxicity in the air or the lack of equipment on his person.

He was panting heavily when he tossed a brief glance behind his shoulders, contemplating on the next course of action he could make. There were still too many zombies nipping at his heels, and he wouldn't be able to keep this up for long. For one, he was running out of stamina. Two, he was injured. Lastly, he was at eighteen hours and twenty minutes of his current gas mask filter usage.

With a grimace, he wished he could trade his own magical ability with the ability to turn back time, even if it was for a short while. If he did, he wouldn't be in this situation in the first place.

It had been an unlucky encounter; an ambush from an intelligent mutated zombie during his travel to the nearest human settlement. When it pounced, it had dug its sharpened nails into his shoulders. He had managed to dislodge the undead bastard and splattered the contents of its head before it could take a bite out of him, but the damage was already done.

He didn't have medicine on hand, having just run out, and due to his newly acquired shoulder injury, he needed them urgently. The wounds looked off, and due to the toxins in the air, he worried it would turn septic before the day was over, hence his determination to scavenge the hospital. It had been nearer to him than the base was.

Unfortunately, misfortune tended to visit in threes. Before he even reached the hospital, a horde had appeared, attracted to the stench of his blood. Somehow, he managed to escape the encirclement with all his limbs intact. However, they chased after him with the ferocity of a rabid dog with a bone.

An hour later and there he was; still running for his dear life.

If he hadn't been wounded on his shoulders, he would've already danced with them undead bastards in close quarters. Unfortunately, he couldn't even raise his shoulders to block or parry, much less swing his blade for the kill. His mana had only started to recover after being thoroughly depleted a week prior, and he'd rather not attempt it lest he succumbs to hypoglycemia. That left him steadily reducing their numbers via a bullet to their heads using his handy dandy pistol which has a silencer attached to it. Sadly, ammunition was running low, and he really didn't want to pull out the big guns yet. The noise would attract too much attention and that was the last thing he needed.

If he was a religious bloke, he would've started to pray for a higher power to save him by now. Alas, lord almighty wouldn't care for his puny magus soul since humanity was already beyond fucked. If there was anything he believed in, they were; himself, luck, and gas mask filters.

Another glimpse and shot behind, and he debated taking a bullet to the head himself. Stamina was low, blood was low, magic power was low, and ammunition was low. The situation was turning from bad to the worst-case scenario. It took all his willpower to beseeched Lady Luck to smile upon him. No, she didn't even have to smile, she just had to glance at him for a split second. That would be enough.

But of course, she didn't. Rather than smile, she scoffed.

When he turned slightly to take aim, he tripped on a wayward tree root and, "motherfucker-!" he cursed as he tumbled down a steep slope, not stopping even on flat ground, and plummeted into a huge hole. He shouldn't have risked running into the forest – this mountain was a death trap. He doubted he would survive the fall; the hole was deep, and it seemed not even sunlight could pierce through its inky depth.

He twisted in midair until he faced the sky, preferring his last view to be that of the dirty, greyish clouds and orangish yonder to the pitch black below. Neither was pleasant, but at least the former gave an illusion of freedom. Regrettably, the snarling zombies dived after him with their mouths wide open and clawed hands outstretched.

Great. Just great, just what he needed. Not only would his last sight be of them, but he would also end up inside their rotting bellies once he touchdown.

Once again cursing those streaks of misfortune, he decided he should at least go out with a gratifying bang. There was a slight distortion in the air as he called forth the last of his mana, but he ignored it in favour of shrugging the backpack off, kicking it away whilst reaching for the submachine gun strapped to the frontal side of his tactical vest. He grinned behind his gas mask, demented and deranged, as he took aim. He knew his doom was fast approaching, maybe in a matter of seconds, even. However, he was determined to drag as many of these undead bastards with him before he became smashed watermelon on the ground.

He pulled the trigger, uncaring of the loud roar his modified P90 released.

A/N:

This story is brought to you by Mister Procrastination and Miss Spur-in-the-moment. My plot bunnies were truly persistent in their desire to breed a zombie apocalypse OC into the canon!UT verse. They threatened to leave me if I didn't write this, damn them …..φ(・д・。)

Update schedule: whenever Mister Procrastination and Miss Spur-in-the-moment decide to collaborate again.