Lincoln switched his flashlight back on and shone it downward.
At the very bottom of the stairs was an open iron door, behind which lay a hallway.
A few lights in the corridor were still on, offering a general view of the area.
The hallway was long, about thirty or forty meters, with several doors lining both sides.
There were zombies in the hallway.
Not just three or five, but a whole crowd of them.
As the flashlight’s beam swept across, Lincoln did a quick head count.
He could see at least seven or eight humanoid silhouettes swaying in the corridor.
Some stood pressed against the walls, some crouched on the floor gnawing on something, and two or three shuffled slowly.
A sign hung on the wall at the end of the hallway, with an arrow pointing right that read: “Emergency Exit →”.
To get through, they had to cross this hallway.
Lincoln switched off his flashlight, stepped back onto the landing, and thought for a few seconds.
Seven or eight, maybe more.
Since some of the doors were open, there was no telling how many more were hiding inside the rooms.
Clearing them with a knife wasn’t realistic.
There were too many of them, and the stealthy, one-by-one approach he had used in the stairwell wouldn’t work in an open hallway.
Then he would fight his way through.
He unslung the Remington M870 from his left shoulder and pumped the forend to check the tube.
Full—seven rounds.
Then he drew his M1911.
Dual wielding!
Shotgun in his left hand, pistol in his right.
This stance wasn’t recommended in any tactical shooting manual, as operating two firearms simultaneously would severely degrade accuracy with both.
But Lincoln’s method was a bit different.
He didn’t fire both guns at once; he used them alternately.
The left hand was responsible for close-range clearing, while the right hand handled precision shots.
The two weapons had a clear division of labor, each covering its own distance zone.
The shotgun took anything within five meters.
At this range, the buckshot required no aiming—just point and shoot—primarily used to deliver stopping power and crowd control.
The pistol covered the five-to-fifteen-meter range, delivering precise headshots.
This shooting style was something he had worked out himself during the company’s shooting drills; his instructors had never taught it, and it wasn’t in any manual.
It was only practical when facing a large number of slow-moving targets.
Which made it perfect for the current situation.
“I’ll go in first and clear a path. You guys follow me, keeping a five-meter distance,” Lincoln said to Billy and Rebecca.
Billy glanced at Lincoln’s dual-wielding stance, raising an eyebrow slightly, but made no objection.
Rebecca took a deep breath and raised her Beretta.
Lincoln turned, walked down the last few steps, and stepped into the B1 level hallway.
The lights in the hallway were bright enough that he didn’t need his flashlight, giving him a clear view.
The nearest zombie was about eight meters ahead to his right, wearing a Training School uniform.
It leaned against the wall, head hanging low, completely motionless.
Another six or seven meters ahead were two more: one crouching, one standing.
The crouching one was gnawing on something on the floor.
Further down, four or five more were scattered throughout the hallway, some shuffling about, others standing still.
Lincoln advanced at a steady pace.
His boot soles clicked against the concrete floor.
The sound wasn’t loud, but it was enough to carry in the quiet corridor.
The one leaning against the wall reacted first.
Its head slowly lifted, its cloudy white eyes turning toward Lincoln.
Its mouth fell open, letting out a muffled groan.
Then, peeling itself off the wall, it began to lumber unsteadily in his direction.
Lincoln didn’t stop.
He waited until it was within five meters.
He raised the M1911 in his right hand, aiming the muzzle at its forehead.
At this distance, he didn’t even need the sights; he could hit it purely by feel.
He squeezed the trigger.
*Bang.*
Direct hit to the center of the forehead.
The bullet went in and came out, and its body collapsed straight backward onto the floor.
The gunshot echoed down the concrete hallway, bouncing off the walls several times before fading.
At that, all the zombies moved at once.
The crouching one stood up, an unrecognizable clump of flesh still hanging from its jaws.
The one standing next to it turned and began moving toward the sound of the gunshot.
The ones further away also moved, picking up their pace, and two squeezed out from open doors.
Lincoln quickly prioritized his targets in his mind.
The closest two were six meters ahead, accelerating toward him.
The others behind them were over ten meters away, so there was no immediate rush.
He took two steps forward to meet the closest pair.
The shotgun required no aiming.
He pointed the barrel at the upper body of the one on the left and pulled the trigger.
*Boom.*
At four meters, the spread of the 12-gauge buckshot was still relatively tight.
Most of the pellets concentrated on its chest and neck, the force slamming the creature back two steps and violently cutting off its forward momentum.
It wasn’t dead, but it was stopped in its tracks.
In the exact same instant, the M1911 in Lincoln’s right hand was already aimed at the head of the zombie on the right.
*Bang.*
In through one temple, out the other.
It went down.
His left hand pumped the forend, ejecting the spent shell and chambering a new one, aiming the muzzle back at the one he had just blasted—which was currently stumbling, trying to regain its balance.
This time, he raised the barrel slightly higher.
*Boom.*
The second shotgun blast struck the creature square in the face at four meters.
The buckshot blew away half its skull along with its brain matter, sending the body spinning halfway around before it collapsed.
Two shotgun blasts, one pistol shot.
Three movements, two targets.
Lincoln’s footsteps never faltered.
He continued moving forward even as he fired, maintaining a steady, measured advance.
Every stride and shift of weight was precisely controlled.
To an outside observer, it would have looked as though he were merely taking a stroll—except he held a gun in each hand, and every few steps, another creature dropped dead.
Ten meters ahead, three zombies huddled together, shuffling toward him.
The one in the middle was the tallest, wearing a black business suit, its tie skewed over its shoulder.
The ones on either side were half a head shorter.
One wore a lab coat, while the other was completely bare-chested, revealing large patches of blackened skin and bulging, purplish-blue veins across its chest and abdomen.
The three of them advanced in unison.
Lincoln frowned slightly, quickly sizing up the situation.
The hallway was about two meters wide.
The three zombies moving abreast wouldn’t completely block the passage; there would be a gap about a shoulder’s width wide along the left wall.
He shifted half a step to the left, continuing his advance along the wall.
When the distance shrank to six meters, the M1911 in his right hand fired first.
The first shot hit the black-suited zombie right between the eyes.
It fell.
The second shot followed less than half a second later, striking the one in the lab coat right above the bridge of its nose.
It fell too.