✅ Completed Chapter
CHAPTER 233: THE SACRIFICE
THE SACRIFICE
With a heart as cold as the steel of the door, you shove the survivor toward the oncoming horde. Their wide eyes meet yours for a fleeting moment, a mix of betrayal and terror etched into their features. The decision hangs heavy in the air, but survival instincts trump morality in this dire moment.
The survivor stumbles, arms flailing as they attempt to regain balance. The animal zombies pounce, their snarls echoing off the narrow walls. In gruesome fashion, the survivor's screams are swallowed by the snarls of the undead, but their sacrifice buys you precious seconds.
Your heart pounds in your chest like a war drum, prompting action. With shaking hands, you refocus on the door. Frantic, you pat down your pockets and find a small canister of gasoline—fuel from a previous encounter. An insane idea forms in your mind, a last-ditch effort to escape.
You douse the hinges with the gasoline, hoping the rust will weaken under the corrosive liquid. Before you can second-guess, you strike the canister with your weapon, creating a spark. The door shudders as flames lick at the metal, the acrid scent of burning rust filling the air.
Behind you, the tunnel shakes with threatening intensity, dust cascading from the ceiling. The horde is momentarily distracted, but not for long. You press your shoulder to the door once more, feeling the searing heat, and push with every ounce of strength left in your weary body.
The door groans under the pressure, and you feel it start to give way. But before you can celebrate, the ceiling cracks wide open, sending debris raining down. Your eyes dart upwards as you cling to the edge of the door, desperation clawing at your soul.
The survivor stumbles, arms flailing as they attempt to regain balance. The animal zombies pounce, their snarls echoing off the narrow walls. In gruesome fashion, the survivor's screams are swallowed by the snarls of the undead, but their sacrifice buys you precious seconds.
Your heart pounds in your chest like a war drum, prompting action. With shaking hands, you refocus on the door. Frantic, you pat down your pockets and find a small canister of gasoline—fuel from a previous encounter. An insane idea forms in your mind, a last-ditch effort to escape.
You douse the hinges with the gasoline, hoping the rust will weaken under the corrosive liquid. Before you can second-guess, you strike the canister with your weapon, creating a spark. The door shudders as flames lick at the metal, the acrid scent of burning rust filling the air.
Behind you, the tunnel shakes with threatening intensity, dust cascading from the ceiling. The horde is momentarily distracted, but not for long. You press your shoulder to the door once more, feeling the searing heat, and push with every ounce of strength left in your weary body.
The door groans under the pressure, and you feel it start to give way. But before you can celebrate, the ceiling cracks wide open, sending debris raining down. Your eyes dart upwards as you cling to the edge of the door, desperation clawing at your soul.