The service tunnel of the Western Barracks is a claustrophobic throat of rusting pipes and flickering conduit wire. Dust chokes the air, stirred up by the recent impact that buckled the infirmary door. Seth presses his back against the cold concrete, his breathing ragged, his hand instinctively checking for the weight of his sidearm.
Seth
The walls are closing in. If the Whisperers are stalking these tunnels, I have to find a way to the main gate or the Kingdom will fall from the inside.
A rhythmic, wet scraping sound echoes from the dark ahead. Something is moving through the runoff water, dragging itself toward the flickering lights. Seth tightens his grip on his AK-47, the metal biting into his palm.
Seth
It is not a patrol. It is one of them.
A figure emerges from the gloom, its movements jerky and unnatural. It is not a walker, but a scout, eyes wild and darting toward the infirmary wreckage. Seth shifts his weight, his boots crunching on the grit, alerting the intruder.