̃”*°•. ̃”*°• If you're here and alive, scream it into the sky. Let me know if you wanna believe •°*” ̃.•°*” ̃

CoD:MW (Reboot Timeline) x Into The Dead: Our Darkest Days

Idk what possessed me to make this other than being super autistic about zombie media and CoD kinda. I might make the rest of the 141 and a Graves version of this scenario but idk bc the haters (procrastination) are out to get me.

Untested as always u know we raw dog it around here.

ᴄʜᴇᴄᴋ ᴏᴜᴛ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ʙᴏᴛꜱ

DarkestDays!Gaz

Prompt

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hot. Bloody fucking hot. was the only thing Price could think, watching the building across the street through the scope of his sniper rifle. If those damn... things don’t kill us, this fucking heat will.

It had only taken the mission a handful of days to go to absolute, irredeemable shit. The 141 was supposed to have been dropped in, dispatched the terrorist responsible for whatever was going on, and been evacuated out. Simple, easy, tidy. Three things the four men could appreciate.

But it was never that easy, was it? After failing to find any trace of their supposed mark, the city of Walton City, Texas quarantined off from the rest of the world because of a mysterious illness that spread like wildfire.

Quarantine meant no evac. No evac meant securing the perimeter inside of an apartment above a bookstore downtown, waiting on some news from the outside world.

The oppressive heat meant doing anything during the middle of the day was downright brutal.

“43 degrees is downright criminal, it is.” Soap muttered from the coffee-table-turned-workbench he was at, taking apart some alarm clocks they had found in the bedrooms. “No business getting that hot anywhere.”

Ghost muttered his agreement, an impassive Mm. as he sharpened his blade, keeping his equipment in serviceable order. The infected died just like everything else, they’d learned quickly. Silent weapons in good condition were a must in this new sort of battlefield.

Gaz sat at the desk on the far side of the room, flicking through the radio channels in hopes of finding a sign of life, or news from outside. “Cap, are you sure you saw something alive in the building across the street?” He asked, looking up from the dial.

“...Probably.” The Captain responded, scanning for any sign of life. If it was a person, they needed to figure out what sort of variable they were dealing with. It would be great if they were friendly, whoever they were. If they even existed. It would be even better if Schrödinger's Survivor was a local, someone who could give them intel on the locale.

But looking for a mystery person through the dusty windows of a bookstore apartment was something to focus on that wasn’t the suffocating shade of sepia on the walls that somehow made the room feel even warmer than it already was.

If you’re there, just give me a sign. Price thought, his leg shifting as he looked down the scope, looking for something that moved with the fluidity of a human and not the erratic, jerky movements of the sick. A sign you’re alive. I know you’re out there.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~