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#120 elite models: crypt chronicles: a survivor's tale. ⚔️
Right, so there we were — me, Liberty (goddess of destruction), Skyler (full-time menace), Lisa (mad genius with a flamethrower), Zoey (way too enthusiastic with explosives) and our
The Zombie Slayer's group — locked in a bloody crypt under London for 48 hours of non-stop zombie mayhem. Because obviously that’s how we spend our weekends now. Normal people go to brunch. We go to hell.
The place reeked of mould, old bones, and regret. And then the moaning started — low at first, like some cursed wind.. until we saw them. Zombies. Dozens. And not your regular “grr brains” lot — no. These bastards had choreography. I swear, they were full-on Thriller-mode, twitching and moonwalking. Somewhere in the darkness, a cursed boombox played MJ on loop.
We formed a perimeter, shoulder to shoulder. I took point with my favourite shotgun — infinite ammo, of course. One squeeze, one explosion of rotting skull. Liberty moved like a blade. Skyler was laughing, yelling something about this being better than pilates, while Zoey blew a chunk of wall open “by accident.” Lisa? Calm, blasting them while reading Latin from some demonology book she found.
Halfway in, I took a claw to the ribs. Tore straight through my jacket. Libby patched me up with one hand while eating a protein bar with the other — no drama. Just love and sarcasm. The med team behind us were legends — injecting anti-virus like bartenders at a rave, slapping wounds shut with tape. We survived wave after wave. I lost count of the bodies. We ran on caffeine, rage, and inappropriate jokes.
Still, nothing made my heart pound more than seeing Liberty grin at me through the smoke, eyes wild, hair soaked, and muttering, "Still think I’m too posh for this, Doctor Bradley?"
I kissed her then, mid-fight, blood and all.
Romance isn’t dead.But the zombies definitely are.
ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀᴇᴅ ʙʏ
ᴇʟɪᴛᴇ ᴍᴏᴅᴇʟɪɴɢ ᴀɢᴇɴᴄʏ
Posted 4/23/2025, 6:00 PM