Marshall pulled out his canteen, taking a drink from it and panting from the heat. Usually the summer in Adventure Bay wasn't too terribly bad, but after the first wave, somehow it got a lot hotter than it was.

He pulled out his map as he drank, studying it. A red circle marked where Everst should have been going. Coastal City police precinct and the hospital. The survivors holed up back in Adventure Bay had been running low on medical supplies and ammunition. They had the means of producing more, but their bullet press had broke and no-one had the means or knowhow to fix it. Everest hoped to scout out the area and see if it was worth sending out a scavenger party.

Marshall sighed heavily. He told her repeatedly that he needed to go with her. Hell, he was rather insistent that she take someone with her. But no, she said she could handle it. As much as Marshall loved her, Everest was much too stubborn at times.

The man stood up, readjusting his rifle strap, press checking his pistol, and continuing with his light jog. He had managed to cover a good twenty miles in the few hours he had been going, barely stopping. He could've taken a car or one of Rocky's cobbled together ramming trucks so he could get through the gridlock of cars on the highway, but he decided that one, they needed them more, and two, that going on foot might prevent death from coming too quickly to claim him, as he could easily hide if the need came.

He trudged on, keeping his same steady pace, eyes constantly flitting around observing his surroundings. Nothing abnormal, not even a stagger. Staggers were a common name for the normal infected in Adventure Bay, as their walking pattern made it seem like they staggered around. Slow as they were, in groups or hordes they were deadly.

Sprinters, as their name suggested, sprinted. They were surprisingly fast, able to clear hundred foot distances in under fifteen seconds in some cases. Outrunning them was near impossible, unless you shot their legs or you ran through rubble or wreckage. They weren't smart enough to navigate through there, it seemed. Also, they were very susceptible to fire for some reason.

Climbers were a rarity. They were the smartest of the infected, able to outsmart all but the quickest thinkers and the most agile of runners. In addition, they had the ability to, as their names tell, climb just about anything and everything. They were easily stopped by a bullet to the head, however.

Marshall sensed something, instinctual alarms going off in his head. Quickly, he dropped to a knee and spun around, lifting his AR-15 and aiming at whatever he thought was behind him, hoping to whatever god that still had faith left in humanity that he could easily kill it.

A small bunny hopped across the road, freezing when it saw Marshall. After a second, it lost interest in him, hopping along on its way. Marshall sighed, relieved. "Paranoid much, Marshall?" He muttered to himself and chuckled. Standing back up, he slung his gun back onto his back.

Suddenly, a hand reached out to slash the man. Marshall barely dodged it, rolling back. A stagger had surprised him, somehow. Unlike the others, this one was quiet. It charged at Marshall. "Okay, panic time." Marshall thought. This was no stagger, but a sprinter. Bigger issue.

The zombie rushed him, slashing blindly at Marshall. The pasty skinned field medic barely managed to dodge the violent attacks, having to resort to using his rifle to block some of the onslaught.

The thing screeched its rage, the slashes getting more frantic and faster. Marshall had two options right about now. Pull his 1911 and shoot the damn thing, or get sliced to ribbons in the next few seconds. Marshall chose life.

The infected's arm came down to grab Marshall's head so that it could take a nice, meaty chuck out of it. Marshall, despite every fiber in his body telling him not to, let it. The thing grabbed Marshall's head and shoulder, going in for the bite.

Two shots rang out, and the body fell. Marshall exhaled heavily, slowly calming himself down and refocusing on reality. He dropped his 1911 mag, the gun almost aiming at his own head when he had shot. Sixteen bullets left. Slapping it back in, he began to walk on, though plenty more aware now of his surroundings.

Clearly, this was going to be a lot harder than first thought.

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Hey guys, Scotty here. This is a continuation of "I Promise" written by the man who has posted this because I STILL don't have access full time to my posting abilities on my account. But I hope you enjoy this further in depth take and I'll see y'all later