Raja stood in the cracked, blood-slick streets of post-apocalyptic L.A., his gold-trimmed jacket catching the wind like a cape woven by a drama-loving deity. In his hands, a matte-black assault rifle purred with menace, ready to turn the undead into chunky salsa.
Before him surged a horde of mutated zombies—hulking, vein-popping nightmares that looked like they'd OD'd on gym supplements and expired Red Bull. Their snarling, drooling faces twisted in rage. One had a horn growing out of its forehead, growling like a demented Demon.
"Let's dance, you Brain matter Loving freaks," Raja muttered, slipping on his aviators. Click.
He opened fire.
Bullets screamed from the barrel with a rhythmic beat—rat-tat-tat pop pop!—each shot turning skulls into bursting piñatas. Brain matter sprayed in every direction, some even spelling out "LOL" in the air like a disrespectful air show.
A particularly fast zombie lunged.
Raja grinned, twisted mid-spin, and roundhouse-kicked the undead bastard in the chest. The impact launched it backwards like a human cannonball, crashing into the crowd and taking down a dozen more like decaying dominoes. Limbs flailed. One shoe flew into the air and landed neatly on a traffic light.
Inside the convoy, survivors stared through their windows, jaws unhinged like cartoon characters.
MAYA's voice buzzed in Raja's earpiece:
"Master, are you trying to turn this apocalypse into a Michael Bay audition tape?"
"Trying? I am the director, darling."
As the zombies staggered back up, groaning in confusion, Raja whistled—an obnoxious tune that sounded suspiciously like the Jeopardy! theme.
"Over here, roaches!" he yelled, flipping them off with both hands.
The horde screamed in unison, stampeding after him like a flash sale crowd on Black Friday. Raja jogged backward, calm and cocky, still popping headshots like he was playing an FPS on god mode. One bullet ricocheted off a stop sign and still hit a zombie in the eye.
Click.
Empty mag. No panic. He whipped out a chrome Desert Eagle the size of a baguette and resumed the massacre, each blast echoing like thunder.
Five seconds later, he reloaded the rifle with a mid-air spin and resumed mowing down the undead with methodical flair. Someone in the convoy whispered, "He's like if Rambo and Commando had a baby, then gave it caffeine."
Raja sprinted forward, vaulting over a burned-out pickup, parkour-ing across crumbling structures like L.A. was his personal playground. In mid-leap over a Humvee, he sniped three zombies in the air before flipping and landing on a tipped-over school bus.
He fired one last shot—zombie #60—right between the eyes. It crumpled mid-lunge, sliding to Raja's feet like a fan seeking an autograph. Raja landed in a superhero crouch, dust swirling in dramatic slow-motion. Behind him, the convoy erupted in applause, kids slapping the windows like he was Spider-Man at a birthday party.
He winked at them.
Then, BOOM!—two metal containers at the far end of the street exploded open like evil piñatas, unleashing twin hordes. This time, the zombies were twitchier, drooling neon green slime, and growling like they'd just discovered double espresso.
The nearby fake Eiffel Tower shook from the force of their roars.
"Oh, come on," Raja groaned. "I just cleaned up."
He bolted for the fake monument, scrambling up its scaffolding like a caffeinated Spider-Man, golden jacket flapping like a heroic flag of chaos. The zombies swarmed the base, climbing after him with a speed that screamed, "bad DLC content."
From the top, Raja casually lobbed two grenades down into the writhing mess.
KABOOM!
Fire bloomed below. Metal screeched as the Eiffel Tower replica folded like cheap IKEA furniture. Chunks of zombies rained from the sky—one arm slapped the windshield of a van, still twitching.
Raja leaped to the nearby fake Statue of Liberty, landing on Lady Liberty's torch like a dramatic pigeon. The remaining horde snarled and charged. He opened fire again, dropping dozens more with surgical precision, but a group peeled off toward the convoy.
"Oh no you don't."
He threw his rifle like a javelin, spearing one in the throat mid-run, then whipped out both Desert Eagles and bolted back toward the vehicles, dual-wielding like a divine gunslinger.
Heads exploded in bloody fireworks. Raja zigzagged through the chaos, sliding under a zombie swing, firing up into its jaw as he passed. Guts rained like confetti.
Halfway through, his senses spiked.
Something wasn't right. These zombies were… coordinated. Like someone was puppeteering their decomposing butts.
"MAYA, gimme telepathy ping!"
"Ping sent. Oh. Ooooh. You're gonna love this."
He zoomed in mentally—rooftop, half a mile away. Fifty Umbrella soldiers, big antennas, and one smug Isaacs clone directing the show like a discount Bond villain.
"Jackpot."
He sent a mental blast, redirecting the horde away from the convoy toward him—and straight at Isaacs' base. Raja sprinted like a lightning bolt with a death wish, the tidal wave of undead crashing behind him.
The soldiers noticed.
Bullets tore through the air like angry bees. Raja dove, twisted, and rolled, dodging with Matrix-like reflexes. He slid under a barrier, popped up, and shot three guards in the face mid-cartwheel. Another ten fell as he advanced, dual Desert Eagles screaming death.
He kicked open the door, zombies pouring in behind him like party crashers at a funeral. Chaos erupted. Blood. Screams. Limbs flying like bad choreography.
Raja darted upstairs, leaving a path of destruction. Every floor was a ballet of violence—spinning, ducking, kicking torsos off balconies while blasting heads at point-blank range. At one point he headbutted a zombie so hard its skull imploded like a microwaved tomato.
By the time he reached the top floor, he looked like a blood-soaked angel of death.
"Time for the encore," he muttered.
He reloaded mid-stride with a flourish, spinning the magazines like drumsticks. A zombie lunged—he sidestepped, snapped its neck with a yawn, and kicked it out the window. The final soldiers braced themselves.
Raja tossed a flashbang.
BOOM—WHITE LIGHT.
By the time their vision returned, they were either dead or unconscious. Raja strolled through the mess like a catwalk model in a horror movie.
Isaacs, panicking, sprinted for a waiting chopper. A stray zombie bit his arm mid-run. The pilot freaked but dragged him aboard anyway. The helicopter lifted into the smoky sky.
Raja watched it go, shook his head, and muttered, "Dumbass."
Then he ran—no, vaulted—down the stairs, gunning down any remaining enemies like he was clearing a level in a speedrun. He reached the convoy, vaulted over a truck, grabbed his nuclear-powered Vintage motorbike, and peeled off in hot pursuit.
Tires screeched. The bike roared.
Through ruined streets and sandy alleys, Raja chased the chopper. He hit a Highway following the chopper like mad man and when his miss the sight of the helicopter he drove up on a hill, he saw the helicopter descend into a fenced compound, surrounded by a thousand zombies.
"Found their hive," he said grimly, as MAYA pinged the location.
"Underground Umbrella Hive confirmed. Massive bio-energy readings. Very bad vibes."
The convoy rolled up behind him, kicking up dust. Carlos stepped out, stared at the house surrounded by the undead army, and groaned.
"I swear to God… if there's another Hive, I'm gonna punch Myself."
Raja cracked his neck, eyes glowing.
"Time for Round 2."
TO BE CONTINUED...