In the darkness of the night, a bullet tore through an infected's skull.
A split second later, glass shattered. The bullet had smashed through the car window behind it, the sharp crash cutting through the silence as the sound echoed down the empty street.
From every direction, shadows stirred.
Low groans rose as infected began pouring out from alleys, doorways, and broken storefronts. Drawn by noise alone, they rushed toward the shattered car.
"About seven hundred meters," Jaxon muttered under his breath. "So that's my limit."
He crouched at a third-floor window of the house, rifle resting against the frame, his night vision scope activated.
His clothes were pitch black, soaked and smeared with dried infected blood, providing him with effective camouflage. Even his face and hands were darkened, his outline melting into the night. From a distance, he was just another shadow clinging to the building, almost invisible against the darkness.
