Soviet Union

-6th of December, 1944.

It had been a year since the damn outbreak started.. zombie soldiers. what kind of sick fuck would ever think of something like that? Well, if the answer wasn't already obvious enough: the Third Reich, and his men, his loyal, little lap dogs.

Soviet leaned against the wall, attempting to catch his breath after he had ran away from a bunch of zombies. he grunted, attempting to reload his AK-47, but the chamber was jammed. "Come on, come on, come on!.." he muttered in frustration. the bandages on his hand were stained with blood.

Soviet felt the icy grip of decaying fingers clawing at his back, a jolt of pure terror shooting down his spine. He spun around, slamming his elbow into the zombie's face with brutal force. He heard the sickening crunch of cartilage and bone shattering, but the creature barely seemed to notice.

Its groans intensified, a guttural, mindless hunger driving it forward. Soviet grabbed it by the throat, squeezing with all his strength, trying to crush its windpipe. But the flesh was cold and spongy, rotting beneath his fingers. He couldn't get a proper grip.

Cursing, Soviet released his hold and stepped back. He raised his pistol, pressing the barrel against the zombie's forehead. At this range, he couldn't miss. But before he could pull the trigger, another zombie, and then another, shambled into view from the shadows of the alley.

Soviet found himself surrounded, a circle of rotting, groaning abominations closing in on him. His heart pounded in his chest, adrenaline surging through his veins. He was out of time.

"Блять..." Soviet muttered under his breath, finally getting his rifle to unjam. He brought it up to his shoulder, aiming at the zombie's head. But something stayed his finger on the trigger. This abomination was once a man, a soldier like himself. A twisted mockery of the brotherhood of arms.

With a snarl of disgust, Soviet lowered his weapon, He couldn't bring himself to waste a bullet on this thing. He stepped forward, grabbing the zombie by its rotting shirt collar, and with a grunt of effort, he slammed its head against the brick wall behind him. Once, twice, three times. On the fourth impact, the creature's skull shattered like a melon dropped from a great height, its putrid brains splattering the wall.

The heavens wept a relentless deluge upon the vast plains, each drop a cold, accusing tear mirroring the downpour of steel and fire that had descended upon the Motherland. It wasn't just water that slicked the churned earth; it was a crimson tide, the lifeblood of Soviet sons soaking into the soil, a grim testament to the brutal embrace of the invader. The air hung thick and heavy, a suffocating blend of damp earth, cordite, and the metallic tang of freshly spilled blood. For the Soviet Union, it was a dawn of unimaginable horror. The sun, usually a symbol of hope and the promise of a new day, was choked by the smoke of burning villages and the dark clouds of enemy aircraft. The earth trembled not just from the thunder of the storm, but from the inexorable advance of the Wehrmacht, their iron tread crushing the fields that had once yielded bountiful harvests. Each crack of lightning illuminated a landscape scarred by destruction – shattered farmhouses, mangled machinery, and the still, broken forms of those who had stood against the tide. The rain washed over their pale faces, mingling with the red that stained their uniforms, a silent eulogy whispered by the storm. The heart of the Soviet Union, once a vibrant and beating drum, now clenched with a cold fury that matched the biting wind. This sacred land, bought with generations of toil and sacrifice, was being defiled. The cries of the wounded mingled with the roar of artillery, a symphony of suffering echoing across the steppes. This was not just a battle; it was an invasion of the soul. Every fallen comrade, every burning village, every inch of lost ground was a fresh wound, a searing pain that fueled a burning resolve. The Soviet Union, vast and resilient, might bleed, but it would not break. From the deepest trenches to the farthest reaches of its sprawling territory, a primal roar of defiance began to rise, a promise of vengeance carried on the wind and the relentless rain.

Soviet lay wounded by a broken stonewall, holding his bloodied side, blue eyes filled with shock as he saw the sea of corpses before him.

"No, no, no.."