The light patter of feet belied the caricature of a human that smashed through the door I was watching, opening its mouth in a horrible scream that I cut off with the shotgun’s roar.

Similarly around me, sharp reports sounded as our ragtag band defended weak points. We were dangerously low on ammo, even though Steve had stumbled across a crashed Army truck in the afternoon. To our dismay, though, it had been carrying rifle rounds – and Jess had the only rifle in our group. I kept the stock against my shoulder and, hearing nothing, risked a peek through the breach. Nothing. I hurriedly fed rounds into the magazine.

Steve pulled away and yelled, “Cover me, reloading!”

I looked round just in time to see a leering face thrust an arm through at him. I moved forward and blasted it backwards, but another quickly reappeared there. I fired again and Steve was done reloading, aiming for the head with quick bursts of submachine gun fire. I fumbled in my belt for shells that weren’t there.

“Got a problem here!”