In the echo of the jet’s passing Ian’s first two shots dropped both balcony players, earning them a +.75 multiplier.

  “Nice,” Doug muttered, tracking the second cluster through the drifting smoke. He relayed their position to Ian while weapons fire cracked from every direction and the low thunder of an approaching horde rolled across the ruined park like cattle on a stampede.

  Ian shifted his aim, sighting down the line Doug had called out. Three heat signatures crouched behind concrete planters and barriers near a half-collapsed subway entrance, waiting for the undead to breach the surface.

  “Imp,” Ian whispered, “Killing Bitches surge playlist. Teamwide.”

  His scope clicked into advanced thermal. The world bled into sharp silhouettes of red and white. Boom boom, clap, the opening of We Will Rock You blasted into their ears as Ian squeezed the trigger to the beat, shifting targets on the clap.

  The first shot blew a fist sized divot out of the U-shaped planter; the second punched clean through and dropped the player cringing behind it. The next pair shattered the rim of a thick concrete barrier, punching through and ventilating the player crouched on the far side. The third target bolted upright, panic visible even at a distance and sprinted in a frantic zigzag toward a burned-out coffee shop.

  Ian exhaled and activated a skill. One Shot Many Kills, tier two, Spectral Projectile and casually pulled the trigger grinning over to Doug. His rifle coughed and the bullet teleported along the perk’s vectoring, snapping into the fleeing player’s torso and flipping the body onto its back.

  Doug barked a laugh as the music surged, tapping his foot in rhythm while his best friend painted death across the battlefield. Their modifier jumped from 0.75 to 1.50 in the corner of his HUD, confirmation that Ian had wiped the second marked group.

  “I’ve got two more skill shots,” Ian said, sweeping his barrel for fresh prey. “Gimme something.” The distant rumble crescendoed into a roar as the dead exploded out of the subway tunnels, thousands of bodies pouring into the park in a single tidal rush.

  “Oh hell yes,” Ian growled, grin sharpening. “Now, man, let’s get this kill counter moving.”

  “Yeah, yeah, hold your ballz,” Doug shot back, easing his scope upward. He tracked the arc of a few zombies dropping as they spilled out of the subway, then caught the telltale shimmer of muzzle flash high above. “Nine o’clock. Nine-seventy-four meters. Eighth floor. Sniper team,” he reported, peeling away from the spotter scope.

  With practiced efficiency he popped open his inventory and materialized five of the spiral grooved microgrenades, football shaped charges engineered to fly stupidly far when paired with high Brawn. Doug planted his feet, selected his angles, and sent each grenade sailing in a high, elegant arc over the battlefield. They’d land deep in the horde without giving away their rooftop nest.

  Ian found the snipers the moment Doug called them out, their thermal signatures bright smears behind a bent balcony railing. He lined up the first shot and fired, gliding to the second target just as Doug’s first grenade left his fingers. Two new hash marks floated across Ian’s HUD, followed by a clean jump in their kill multiplier. He allowed himself a tight smile the skills timer ending.

  Ian settled the G53a’s stock against the masonry and let it rest as he drew up the FN from its sling, tucking it into his shoulder and sighting down toward the sea of undead below, waiting for Doug’s grenades to blossom.

  Doug kept one eye on the wrist-screen that mirrored the feeds from the two mounted guns they’d set up, silent guardians watching their backs. Just as the first surge-song faded in their ears and another old-school track spun up, five concussive blooms rippled upward from the park. Their HUD counters exploded into motion.

  54 Kills x2 multiplier = 108: Total: 108 Kills

  “Nice, dude. Great aim,” Ian said, already leaning into the rifle. He fired down into the churning darkness below, using the rising smoke to veil his bullet trails. A waterfall of 1s and the occasional 2 scrolled along his HUD as he emptied the sixty-round mag.

  He slapped in a new one, let the FN drop back into place at his thigh, then nestled the butt of the G53a into his shoulder again, scanning the park below them. The kill chain counter blinked, needing another refresh.

  61 Kills x2 multiplier = 122: Total: 230 Kills

  Doug peeled his gaze from the frenzy below, cheeks flushed, grin feral. ‘This is why we make games,’ he thought. ‘I forget this feeling in the grind of daily bullshit, then something like this reminds me.’ He materialized five more explosives, lined them up and manned the spotters scope, scanning the opposite vector.

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  A small knot of zeds sprinted toward a half-collapsed lobster-roll truck. Doug zoomed in. “Five-thirty, 1167 meters. Ground level. Old food truck. I count seven, no, eight muzzle flashes inside.”

  Even as he spoke, the undead chasing the truck crumpled, players inside cutting them down. The muzzle flashes died. ‘Good ammo control. Must be an experienced squad.’ Doug mused, then he saw something else and grinned with a wicked smile. ‘But terrible situational awareness, boys and girls.’

  “Gas tanks. Right side and roof,” he clipped out, knowing Ian could only tag one or two from this angle before the rest bolted.

  “Heard,” Ian murmured. Three sharp coughs from the G53a. Doug watched through the scope as the first round punched through the back door handle of the van, an incendiary burst welding it shut in a flash of white hot metal. The second and third rounds hit the tanks. Two firebombs erupted, one low, one high turning the truck into a rolling funeral pyre that swallowed everyone inside.

  Seven hash marks swept through Ian’s HUD. Their multiplier surged to x3.75. Ian shifted, and froze. A single player burst from the flames, sprinting blindly, arms over his head, body engulfed. A zombie lunged out of the bushes and blindsided him, dragging both into the dirt.

  Ian adjusted a fraction and fired. The round vaporized the zombie’s head, then punched through the burning player’s chest, stopping his heart mid-stumble.

  1 Kill x3.75 multiplier = 3.75 Total: 233.75 Kills

  Another hash mark drifted through. The multiplier ticked up to x4. Ian scanned slowly northward, listening to the rattle of small arms far off and the crack of a high-powered rifle somewhere to their right. ‘Hmm. Another nest. Wonder if I can see you…’ he thought as he shifted the G53a up into his hands and stepped forward to the right side of the balcony

  “Duck,” he told Doug, already moving. Doug ducked under the swing of the barrel and tracked the sound, seeing a small team below finished off the stragglers from wave one.

  “Six and twenty five meters…” he murmured. “Yeah, I can do that.” He grabbed two grenades. Quarterback stance. Two steps forward, snap first grenade launched. Back two steps, catch, reset and snap, second grenade on its way. He leaned in to watch. The four players were celebrating their clean sweep when the first grenade landed behind them. The shockwave knocked them sprawling. The second grenade dropped straight into their pile.

  Four hash marks glided into Doug’s HUD; the multiplier climbed to x5.

  He turned grinning, just in time to see Ian pulling five more grenades from his inventory. “Nice work,” Ian said, setting them in a row. “Can’t spot that asshole over there, but I hear him. Doesn’t matter. Wave two incoming. I’ll be overwatch, be ready.” Doug moved to the grenades, one in each hand, as the thunder of running feet swelled, wave two rushed up from the subway stations and into the park.

  “Three o’clock, 346 meters,” Ian barked. Doug shifted his eyes to see the horde rushing up from below and didn’t hesitate. He threw the first and second grenades as he had at the foursome just a moment ago, grabbing two more and hurling them to follow, shifting his aim slightly to box the entrance in. Gunfire roared from every direction as the subway vomited wave two into the open.

  He reached for the last grenade, “Hold,” Ian snapped.

  51 Kills x5 multiplier = Total: 255

  Ian’s scope tracked backward, from carnage to a gazebo roof. A single muzzle flash flickered from a camouflaged sniper nest. ‘Slow and steady, huh? Alright,’ Ian thought, marking the location. The sniper looked up, just for a heartbeat. ‘Shit, bitch. That was one glance.’ He waited, ‘sometimes better to save a snack.’

  “Well?” Doug asked, too keyed up to sit still.

  “Keep your panties on, Cindy,” Ian muttered, scanning the field again. More zeds spawned with every wave, extras from the buildings, higher classes each round. “Just early of ten o’clock. One-seventeen meters. Ground floor, go two.”

  “Go two,” Doug echoed, launching both grenades without hesitation.

  11 kills x5 multiplier = 55 x3 class multiplier = 165 Total: 420 Kills

  “Fuck yes,” Ian barked. “Eleven extras! Good throws, dude.” He slung the sniper rifle back to where he started and gestured Doug forward. “Rinse and repeat. Counter’s almost dry, we need our killz, baby.” Doug laughed at his friend and scanned hard, urgency rising as the timer bled down. Nothing. No respawns yet. The north side was too dense, too shadowed.

  Timer hit red, Ian’s jaw tightened. ‘Sorry, snack time. Shouldn’t have looked up.’ He fired one round. A hash mark floated up, multiplier up to x5.25. Timer reset.

  “Who was that?” Doug asked.

  “Just someone who looked at me wrong.” Doug shook his head and kept scanning.

  “Here we go,” he murmured. A faint silhouette peeking from a distant window. “Eleven-thirty., fourth floor. Right window, just a glimpse.”

  “Heard,” Ian said. He lined up the G53a, “back to work,” he growled and fired.