The rain slicked the cracked pavement of Muldraugh, turning the dried blood on the tactical shield into a dark, viscous smear.

Sergeant Miller tightened the straps on his , the visor fogging slightly with every shallow breath. Behind him, the heavy thud of combat boots echoed off the abandoned storefronts—his team was a patchwork of survivors clad in scavenged black SWAT fatigues and reinforced ballistic vests . They weren’t police anymore; they were the heavy lifting for a group of civilians starving in a gated community three miles north.

"Phalanx formation," Miller hissed over the low moan of the wind.

The first wave hit like a tide. Rotting hands clawed at the polycarbonate surface of the shields, the screech of fingernails on plastic agonizingly loud. Miller braced his shoulder, feeling the staggering weight of the undead press against him. "Push!" he barked.

They weren't just surviving the Kentucky winter; they were reclaiming the streets, one methodical strike at a time.