[Salone]

At once chaos erupted all around Lev. Scores of the undead monsters hurled themselves in a wave of rotten flesh towards him.

BOOM

The concussion and blast of light from the first shot left an afterimage in his vision, but he ignored it. The slug launched itself from the barrel of his ancient rifle, hurtling through the air and ripping its way through the skull of one of the many many foes before him.

Slide back. Slam forward. Chamber. Fire.

Another one fell, several dozen filling the space where it had once been.

Slide back. Slam forward. Chamber. Fire.

The sea of dead surged forward towards their little group.

Slide back. Slam forward. Chamber. Fire.

He caught one in the chest with his fourth shot. Its back exploded as the slug fractured inside the rotted flesh, exploding in to shrapnel as it exited. It wasn't enough. It would have been easier for him to empty an ocean with a spoon.

You will never be enough!

His final shot was cut short. Rushed by one of the undead things, he was stuck to the ground by its assault. In the same moment the creature was on top of him, malformed and rotted hands scrabbling at the vest of body armor he wore. In a fit of defiance he threw the creature off, assaulting it with the barrel of his rifle. He pierced the underside of the jaw with sheer force, firing his last round directly in to its skull. Bone and brain erupted in his face, showering him in putrid flesh.

You are losing.

He pulled himself to his feet. The horde was closer. Ever closer. Always closer. His rate of fire would have to equal the rate of their advance.

He unslung his AKS-74U submachine gun with one hand while shouldering his Mosin-Nagant with the other. A magazine was produced from the many folds and pockets of his person. And as he brought it up, teeth came sinking down in to his arm.

Lev went down with a feral scream, shouting fury and pure rage as his body was overtaken by the scores of undead. Desperately he tried to fit the magazine to the gun. Claws and mouths hungered for him, pursued him to the ground, ripped and tore in to him, covered him, began to overtake him. He was lost to the masses.

You will not prevail!

Overpowered by the screams and moans of thousands of corpses, there was a quiet click as the bolt of a submachine gun fed the first round in to a chamber.

"No ya ne sdamsya!"

Automatic fire blew the top half of one of the monsters away. Another, and another. The pack atop Lev became a mass of tissue and gore as they fell to pieces on top of him. As he ate through the magazine, the lead he put forth ate through his attackers. He fought through the muck and blood to stand. He kept firing, finger caught against the trigger in a death grip as he retreated back. His clothes were shredded, tattered. Blood poured freely from his arms and legs. Tissue exposed itself from a deep wound on his cheek, and cuts and gashes decorated him like some sort of nightmarish Christmas tree of flesh. And through it all, he fought.

Each change of magazines let them gain ground towards him, and each load of fresh ammunition pushed the tide back. The sea surged, but for now Lev Gurevich was holding as much as he could.

You falter. Flesh will consume the flesh that consumes flesh here. Rotted putrid flesh. LISTEN TO ME.

Blood stung at Lev's eyes. His wounds were many. The barrel of his submachine gun burned at the hand clutching it, searing the skin. His head was swimming. Blood, so much blood. Too much of his own had been spilled in the sea before him. He had escaped, but not unscathed, untouched. And like the wall of flesh before him, his own mind was being pressed in against. Assaulted. Pulled at.

Let go...