"Is everyone all right? Can you still move?"
Montagne planted his massive shield on the ground and panted heavily. Behind him lay a pharmacy in utter ruin.
The pharmacy's outer walls had been completely burned away, while the interior was even more horrifying. The furniture that had once stood there was riddled with holes.
"I'm fine. Mozzie—where's Mozzie?"
Frost removed her mask and spat a mouthful of bloody saliva onto the ground.
"Don't get worked up, don't get worked up. Your internal organs are injured. You need to rest."
Doc, covered in ash, held back Frost as she tried to rush outside to see what had happened.
"The commander will be here soon. What we need to do now is recover."
Half of Tachanka's helmet had been sliced away. Beneath the missing half, a horrifying wound had been carved across his Russian face.
"Glaz, can you still track them?"
Montagne weakly looked toward Glaz, who stood at a high vantage point.
"I don't know how much longer I can keep it up. They're moving fast—an average of two kilometers per minute. We can't catch them."
The moment those words were spoken, everyone fell silent.
Tachanka slumped to the ground in regret, even as blood continued seeping from the vicious wound on his face.
The others were in much the same state. Doc kept moving among them, giving the operators injection after injection of hormones.
Everyone's eyes burned with fury.
Crownslayer, a Reunion Movement officer, also stood there at a loss, clutching her injured arm.
Lyudmila did not want to leave. That was why, when the battle had nearly broken out, Lyudmila had fallen into a brief moment of thought.
A visible dawn of hope for the Infected. A future that was no longer distant and unseen. The key to allowing