The room was chaos, bullets tearing through the air like a storm of metal. He rose from a crouch in front of the room's dresser, shattered wood and plaster raining down around him. The TV behind him, riddled with bullet holes, crashed to the ground, shattering into pieces.
With a snarl, he sprang forward, sprinting straight through the old plaster wall. The studs splintered under his strength as he burst into the next room, debris scattering in his wake. He grabbed a nearby desk and hurled it across the room, the heavy wooden frame crashing into two men and sending them sprawling.
Three men remained. They were shaken, eyes wide as they glanced at each other, their guns trembling. Some of their comrades were retreating, voices crackling over radios as they moved to other floors or exited the building entirely. The sight sent a surge of anger through Cal. They underestimated him.
With a fluid motion, he lunged at the nearest thug, his fist colliding with the man's jaw with a sickening crack. He fell, unconscious before he hit the ground. The second man tried to aim his rifle, but Cal was faster, grabbing the barrel and wrenching it to the side, then driving his knee into the man's stomach. He doubled over, the air and vomit knocked out of him, and Cal finished him with a swift elbow to the head.
The third man made a break for the door, but Cal was there in a heartbeat, grabbing the back of his jacket and throwing him against the wall. The man's head hit the plaster with a dull thud, and he slid to the floor, out cold.
Cal's chest heaved, adrenaline still pumping as he scanned the room. It was eerily quiet now, the only sound the faint crackle of a radio somewhere down the hall. He knew there were more. He'd seen them moving to the upper floors. They're regrouping.
He sprinted toward the stairwell, his boots pounding against the cracked linoleum. He reached the next floor in seconds, skidding to a halt as he scanned the dimly lit hallway. It was empty. Too empty. The silence pressed in on him, a cold realization dawning.
Before he could take another step, a voice echoed from outside, booming and clear despite the distance. "Hey, hero! The undead man!"
Cal froze, the taunting tone making his blood run cold. He turned, moving to the nearest window overlooking the back of the hotel. His heart sank as he looked out, horror clawing at his chest.
In the back parking lot, Brutus stood, holding Ryan off the ground by the back of the neck. Ryan struggled, his legs kicking helplessly as he tried to free himself. The massive figure turned his head, their eyes locking through the window.
Brutus smiled, a genuine, almost friendly expression that made Cal's stomach churn. He lifted Ryan higher, his grip unyielding as he held Cal's friend like a ragdoll. Cal's fists clenched at his sides, rage and fear twisting inside him as he stared down at the scene.
Brutus's smile widened, and he gave a small, mocking wave before tightening his grip on Ryan's neck, making him choke. Cal's mind raced, panic clawing at the edges of his thoughts. He had to get down there, had to save Ryan—but every second felt like a lifetime as he stood, frozen, unable to look away.