"Brecken, I’m near the drop zone," Crane said into his radio, his voice tight.
He grabbed the Antizin vials, stuffing them into his pack, when a sound like tearing silk echoed from the alleyway behind him. He froze. It wasn't the clumsy shuffle of a zombie. It was fast. Rhythmic. A Volatile. Crane didn't look back. He bolted. Articles on the topic: "Dying light"
The air in Harran didn’t just smell like decay; it smelled like heavy, wet copper. "Brecken, I’m near the drop zone," Crane said
The parkour that felt like play in the daylight became a desperate gamble in the dark. He lunged for a zip line, the wind whipping past his ears as he soared over a pack of infected. Behind him, he heard the screech—a guttural, chest-vibrating roar that told him he’d been spotted. It wasn't the clumsy shuffle of a zombie