The knife was getting closer and closer to Spike's face. He was pressing up against his enemy's arm as much as he could. To Spike's surprise, his arm was getting tired and the knife was but an inch away from going through his eye. He looked around and noticed his empty pistol on the ground a few feet away. He let one hand go from his assailant's and reached for the last glimer of hope he had left. His fingers brushed up against the polished metal. "Dammit. This always seems to happen." He thought to himself. He finally got hold of his gun and smashed it as hard as he could against the side of the zombie's face, knocking it to the ground beside him. He quickly rolled ontop of the zombie and began to ram his fist through the zombie's face. He punched and punched until his knuckles were raw. It wasn't long before Spike's rage had been settled. The fox slumped back against the wall and looked at the mess he'd made. He looked at his bloody hands and fur. He reached over and picked up his pistol, loading it with the penultimate clip he had left. He holstered his weapon, retrieved his knife, and stepped over the bodies to get the diary. He stuffed it into his pocket and walked out of the room, stepping over the dead zombie in the hallway at the top of the stairs. He walked down the steps and back out into the street.
He got on the radio. "Sgt. Tavor, this is Pvt. Miller. What is your ETA, sir? Over."