He’s sitting at the table nibbling on a juicy snack when he spots it: the big cloud of dust.
“Shit.” He stands up, the wooden chair screeching on the tiled floor. “Shit.” He grabs the binoculars from the hook on the wall. He focuses as far down the road as he can, straining his eyes to try and see through the cloud. “Shitting… shit.” A dust cloud normally means they’re coming, and in large numbers.
There! He spots a shadowy outline of a shape moving through the dust, a few hundred metres down. He throws the binoculars back on the hook and takes off down the hall, knocking his plate and cup flying.
A head pops out from a doorway, groggy, annoyed at the noise.
“Jesus, keep it down, will you…” she says, yawning. “Some of us were on night watch, you know.”
“Dust cloud,” he shouts, clipping her elbow on his way past.
“Shit.” She grabs her shotgun and her boots from behind the door and runs down the hall after him.
She catches up to him in the turret, prepping the guns.
“Why can’t they just leave us alone?” he says, shaking his head.
She jumps into a gunner seat.
“Hey.” She grabs his arm. “Focus. We take them down. We survive. It’s us or them.” She loads the first magazine. “We’re just… infected. We’re still human.” She peers down the sights at the oncoming wave and squeezes off a round.