Adventure of KaptKroniK 1

The fire escape shatters with a deafening screech of rusted iron. Tactical Survivor

drops, his body slamming into the asphalt with a sickening thud. Dust and twisted metal rain down around him, effectively cutting off the narrow alleyway exit.

The infected surge over the debris pile, their moans growing louder as they crest the mountain of trash. The Tactical Survivor scrambles on the ground, struggling to reclaim his crossbow from the tangled debris, his eyes wide as he realizes he is exposed.

KaptKroniK surges forward, his heavy boots finding slick oil on the asphalt. He miscalculates the uneven terrain, his large frame stumbling as his toe catches a protruding shard of rebar. He goes down hard, the air driven from his lungs as he skids into the base of the pile.

The lead infected, a former office worker with a shredded tie, lunges over the heap of trash, clawing the air inches above the Tactical Survivor’s head. More shadows detach themselves from the gloom, filling the alleyway with the wet, rhythmic slapping of rotting feet on pavement. The tactical survivor fumbles with his jammed crossbow, his knuckles white as he turns his gaze toward the gnome sprawled at his feet.

KaptKroniK lunges upward, his massive hand snatching the discarded magazine from the tactical survivor’s belt mid-tumble. He slams the bolts into the crossbow, his red-tattooed eyes locking onto the center of the rotting mass. The string hums with lethal tension as he pivots his heavy frame, releasing the trigger in a single fluid motion. The bolt whistles through the stale air, striking the lead infected square in the throat and pinning it backward into the pile.

More infected scramble over the barricade, their groans growing louder as they crest the mountain of trash. The crossbow is empty again.

KaptKroniK attempts to bolt toward the bar, his boots finding purchase on the slick, trash-strewn ground. He shifts his massive weight, but his foot catches on a jagged piece of rebar protruding from the debris. He face-plants into the wet asphalt, a half-full beer bottle clattering from his pocket and shattering against the curb.

The infected swarm ripples over the pile like a tide of putrid meat. A clawed, grey hand reaches out, its fingers brushing the back of KaptKroniK's collar as he struggles to regain his footing. The alleyway narrows, and the exit to the bar feels miles away through the press of the dead.

KaptKroniK lunges forward, his heavy frame surprisingly nimble as he narrowly evades the grasping fingers. He scrambles past the pile of splintered wood and rusted metal.

He reaches the heavy steel door of the bar just as the Tactical Survivor pulls the handle. The hinges groan in protest, refusing to budge more than a few inches.

The infected at the front of the swarm have untangled themselves from the debris, their wheezing breath hot against KaptKroniK's neck as he turns to face the door.

The door jerks half an inch, then snaps back with a brutal clang. A fresh seam opens near the latch, but it is not the bar's salvation, it is a crack in the frame. Cold air and rot roll out together.

Something heavy slams the far side. The buckled metal bows inward, and the handle twists in the survivor's hands. Dust showers down from the lintel.

Inside, a bottle rack shatters with a distant crash. Glass skitters across the floor just beyond the gap, impossibly close, impossibly out of reach.

The infected behind them surge harder against the debris pile, making the alley tremble. One of their hands hooks over the edge, searching blind for meat and balance.

KaptKroniK hauls the duffel free and the latch spits open in his hands. A warm bottle rolls out, clinking against the alley stones.

The Tactical Survivor snatches the bag before it can slip, then glances from the drink to the door, jaw tight.

He shoves the duffel toward KaptKroniK and plants a shoulder against the warped frame, using the new opening as the alley shudders again.

Behind them, a hand scrapes over the debris pile, then drops out of sight as more weight hits the barricade.

The warped door lurches inward under their combined weight, and the frame gives with a dry crack. Cold air rushes out of the bar, spilling over the alley trash and the bloodless faces below.

He shoves through first, dragging the duffel with him as KaptKroniK follows into the dim room. The alley noise mutes behind the half-open door, but fists still hammer the wood from outside.

The Tactical Survivor twists back and jams his shoulder into the door, eyes flicking to the warped latch and then to KaptKroniK's bottle. He breathes hard, listening to the pounding beyond the frame.

Outside, the banging turns to a scraping drag across the threshold, and dust shakes loose from the cracked lintel as the door trembles in its frame.