"The person holding them is up there." I put my finger against the inside of the shell so he could follow the line of it.
The charge was transparent enough to see through, everything outside it running slightly blue at the edges. Infected moved past the light in broken, stuttering paths.
Max turned his head and looked down the length of the building. The blonde hair caught the streetlight. His posture didn't change—patient, unhurried, carrying the same confidence he had the first time we met, before any of us entered the walls.
An infected came at us and hit the shell and reeled off it. The impact registered as a dull pressure against the charge and nothing more. The last few men still standing out there were going down now, one after another, and coming back up wrong. The process had almost finished. The street was running out of living material to convert.
