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Page 11: The Breach of Humanity

 

Marshall's brother acted swiftly, his hands shaking with adrenaline as he seized the rifle dropped by the fallen soldiers. With grim determination etched into his features, he aimed the weapon at the back of the nearest US soldier's head, his finger tightening on the trigger with a steady resolve. Each shot rang out like a macabre symphony, a cacophony of gunfire that reverberated through the chaos of battle.

 

But even as he fired round after round, his attention was drawn to his sister-in-law, who had managed to snatch a sidearm from one of the fallen soldiers. Fear etched into her features, she aimed the weapon at one of the advancing soldiers, her hands trembling with a mixture of terror and desperation.

 

One of the soldiers, witnessing his comrade fall at Marshall's brother's hand, turned to face the trio of survivors. Vince, firing wildly beside them, drew the soldier's attention, his frantic shots ringing out in a desperate bid for survival.

 

In a split second, the soldier's gaze shifted to the wife, who stood poised with the stolen pistol in hand. With lightning reflexes, he aimed his own weapon at her, his finger tightening on the trigger with deadly intent. The wife squeezed at the trigger of her own weapon, but to her horror, it refused to budge.

 

The soldier opened fire, the sound of gunfire tearing through the air like a cruel symphony of death. The wife stumbled back, the pistol slipping from her grasp as she lost her balance and crashed to the ground with a sickening thud.

 

"Annette, fuck!" Marshall's brother's anguished cry cut through the chaos as he rushed to her side, his heart heavy with despair.

 

Meanwhile, Vince continued to fire round after round, his mind consumed by one singular purpose: finding his son. With a fleeting glance at the unfolding chaos around him, he spotted an opening and seized the opportunity, sprinting towards the parking lot with reckless abandon.

 

As he ran, firing at any soldier who dared to impede his progress, he discarded his empty weapon with a single-minded focus. The crowded parking lot seemed to blur past him as he raced towards his goal, his only thought to escape the clutches of the warring factions and reunite with his son.

 

But even as he made his escape, he couldn't shake the feeling of unease that lingered in the air. The UN soldiers, closing in on the camp, left no room for error, giving each falling soldier a headshot, ensuring that both UN and US soldiers alike met their end with chilling efficiency. In the midst of the chaos, it was clear that survival would require more than just brute force—it would demand cunning, strategy, and a willingness to do whatever it took to stay one step ahead of the relentless tide of death that threatened to consume them all.

 

As Vince darted through the swirling chaos that engulfed him, the crackle of gunfire filled the air, a constant reminder of the peril that lurked around every corner. Soldiers, their faces contorted in grim determination, unleashed a relentless barrage of bullets as Vince weaved his way through the deadly maze of conflict.

 

With each step, he edged closer to Entrada Drive, his mind focused on the single goal that drove him forward: to reach safety, to find his son. He ducked and dodged past Humvees and military vehicles that cluttered the road, their imposing forms looming like silent sentinels in the night.

 

Between the cacophony of gunfire and the chaos of battle, Vince's senses remained razor-sharp as he navigated the treacherous path ahead. The familiar landmarks of 426 Entrada Drive and The Cookie Studio LA served as guiding beacons in the tumultuous sea of violence and uncertainty.

 

As he raced down the path, the sounds of war gradually began to fade into the background, replaced by the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat and the pounding of his footsteps against the pavement. Each stride brought him closer to his destination, closer to the hope of reuniting with his son in the face of overwhelming adversity.

 

With each passing moment, the weight of the world seemed to lift from Vince's shoulders, replaced by a renewed sense of purpose and determination. He pressed on, his resolve unyielding, as he dared to believe that amidst the chaos and destruction, there still existed the possibility of finding Junior and Kate.

 

As Vince reached Adelaide Drive, a sense of caution settled over him, his pace slowing as he navigated the desolate street. With each step, he couldn't shake the nagging feeling of vulnerability, wishing he had seized one of the rifles scattered amidst the chaos.

 

As he continued towards 4th Street, his eyes scanned the horizon, searching for any sign of movement amidst the eerie silence. Suddenly, two figures emerged from the shadows, their forms moving with purposeful intent. Vince tensed, his fists clenching involuntarily as he prepared for a confrontation.

 

But relief washed over him as the figures drew closer like a wave crashing against the shore. They were living, breathing people—fellow survivors navigating the dangerous streets in search of safety.

 

However, his relief was short-lived as he noticed something unsettling about the group. Behind the first two individuals emerged four more, their movements disjointed and unsteady. It was clear that these newcomers were no longer in control of their own faculties, their actions driven by a primal instinct that bordered on the edge of madness.

 

As Vince observed the approaching figures, a strange mix of emotions washed over him, his heart fluttering with a nervous energy akin to a teenager catching a glimpse of their crush. Yet, amidst the turmoil, a grim realization settled in his mind like a heavyweight.

 

"Those people... they're not normal," Vince muttered to himself, his voice barely above a whisper as he watched the grotesque procession stumble forward. Their movements were awkward and uncoordinated, their vacant eyes betraying the absence of any shred of humanity.

 

A shiver ran down Vince's spine as he comprehended the situation. In a world consumed by chaos and despair, even those who were once friends and neighbors could be reduced to mindless shells, driven solely by an insatiable hunger that defied reason.

 

As the creatures drew closer, Vince felt a strange sense of calm descends upon him, a newfound clarity amidst the encroaching darkness. With a determined resolve, he prepared himself for the inevitable confrontation, his muscles tensing in anticipation.

 

"Corre por tu vida, amigo mío," a voice called out, urging Vince to run for his life. But Vince remained steadfast, his gaze fixed firmly on the approaching threat.

 

Ignoring the warning, he flexed his shoulders and stretched his neck, steeling himself for the impending clash with a quiet determination. The creatures, once men like himself, drew nearer, their distorted forms a chilling reminder of the fragility of humanity in the face of unfathomable darkness.

 

As the four undead figures advanced towards Vince with relentless aggression, their movements erratic and driven by a blind hunger, Vince readied himself for a decisive counterattack. He squared his shoulders and narrowed his focus, his eyes locked on the nearest threat.

 

Vince began his counter with strategic positioning, starting with a controlled, steady pace that quickly escalated into a full sprint. This rapid acceleration is crucial as it builds momentum, making the subsequent attack more potent.

 

As Vince sprinted towards the undead, his body leaned slightly forward, propelling him into greater speed. His arms pumped at his sides, aiding his acceleration and preparing his muscles for the explosive movement to come.

 

Just before reaching striking distance, Vince executed a key deceptive maneuver integral to the Superman punch — he feigned a high knee strike. This movement served a dual purpose: firstly, to suggest a different kind of attack, potentially causing a living person to react defensively in the wrong way, and secondly, (but most importantly in the giving situation) to generate additional forward and upward momentum for the punch.

 

With the feint in place, Vince sharply retracted his knee and simultaneously thrust off the ground with his back foot, propelling himself upwards and forwards. His body aligned horizontally as he launched into the air, mimicking Superman's flight—hence the punch's name.

 

In mid-air, Vince fully extended his rear arm towards the face of the nearest undead. The power of the Superman punch comes from the combination of forward momentum and the gravity-assisted downward trajectory. His other hand remained ready at his side or slightly behind, both to maintain balance and prepare for any needed follow-up actions.

 

The fist connected with the undead's face, the force maximized by Vince’s airborne speed and body weight transferring into the punch. The impact was designed to injure and push the creature backward, exploiting the element of surprise and the physical blow to disrupt the advancing group.

 

After delivering the punch, Vince’s lead foot (the same side as his punching arm) touched down first, allowing him to regain his footing and balance quickly. His back foot then followed, stabilizing his stance. This rapid recovery is vital in combat, especially when surrounded by multiple attackers, as it readies the fighter for further engagement or defensive maneuvers.

 

Vince assessed his immediate surroundings post-impact and prepared to continue the fight. His body remained slightly crouched and hands up, ready to defend against any other attackers or to launch another strike.