The defensive line didn't just fail, it got chewed apart like wet paper, and the sound of it was something nobody who survived would ever get out of their heads. Private Miller was the first to go in his section, not with some heroic last stand but with a wet crunch as a vampire landed right on his chest plate, the impact snapping ribs before the kid could even get his rifle up.
The thing's claws were like rusted rebar, punching through Kevlar and flesh alike, and when it tore into his throat, the spray painted the sandbags and the guy next to him in hot, sticky red. Miller's scream was barely a gurgle, cut off so fast it felt wrong, like the world itself had muted him.
Sergeant Hayes tried to hold the gap, screaming orders that nobody could really hear over the gunfire and the shrieking. He emptied his mag into a vampire's face at point-blank range, the skull blowing out in a mess of gray and black goo, but two more were already on him, moving like spiders on crack.
