Ronan was already moving. He grabbed one of his men and pulled him backward as bullets struck the ground where they had been standing, then shouted for the formation to fall back two meters.
The line shifted toward the stone wall, allowing them to protect one flank while keeping their weapons trained on the approaching horde.
For several minutes, the square became a brutal exchange of gunfire.
The Pathfinders fired in controlled bursts, dropping infected whenever they came within range.
Bodies accumulated across the snow-covered street, yet the mass behind them seemed almost endless.
Every time one fell, another stepped over it. Some charged recklessly, screaming and swinging whatever weapon they had managed to pick up, while others stayed behind cover and waited for an opening.
The difference between them was becoming more obvious.
The ordinary infected were dangerous because there were so many of them. The others were dangerous because they were thinking.
