And then, there were more, like a horde of barbarians on drugs they poured through the trees and thicket, flying towards the small group with that uncanny, inexplicable instinct they all seemed to possess, and, as always, also for no reason anyone had ever been able to figure out, hardly ever stumbling, falling or running into trees, as they ought, at their speed and in this accursed darkness. Utem had turned to cover their backs, running backwards, but that was merely one direction, and the stinkers came at them from all sides now.<br/><br/>Some were already close enough for Franka to shoot, aiming at the source of the howling and screaming. Only the sudden silence would tell her she had killed one, although the others could see she often came very close to the bull's eyes of the noise, aka the creatures' mouths. But it still was not enough, there were many, and quite a few came dangerously close, their superior speed making it almost impossible to outrun them even under ideal circumstances, leave alone in this darkness. Soon, Franka chose her machete over the gun, to spare bullets and increase her efficiency.<br/><br/>Now, her mastery of this weapon showed, her method a weird mixture of martial arts styles that would have looked a lot better with a sword, and the furious onslaught of a berserk. The control she had over her body was impressive, no doubt she had routine and determination when it came to fighting these once human creatures. A whirling, diving, jumping and kicking silhouette she was in the green flickering of the team's night vision, a viscous fighter, and apparently fearless, moving and acting as if being almost blind hardly bothered her.<br/><br/>This only seemed to be the case, however, it was not at all natural for her to have her main sense almost completely useless. Experience helped, but could not nearly make up for the feeling of being impaired, exposed, disadvantaged. Had there been a choice between fighting and running, she would have fled, but there was none, between life and death stood only the best use she could make of what little she had, her best allies being an instinct as sharp as her blade, and her fierce will to survive. She whirled around, slashing through an exposed throat, turning scream into gurgle once more, then ducked from under grasping arms, rolled around on the damp, slippery leaves to cut through one stinker's Achilles' tendon.<br/><br/>Coming back up, her blade tore through a second's hamstring. Where she could not instantly kill, she aimed at slowing them down, hacking away at them once they stumbled, fell, stomping a heavy boot onto their larynxes, ignoring the fingers digging into her skin, tearing at her leather clad legs. It was savage, brutal and gory, the seeming randomness of her attacks followed a strategy, though. All she did, every risk she took was aimed at preventing stinkers to come close enough to make physical contact with a team member. She panted, grunted with effort and occasional pain, soon was covered in blood, proof of an immunity that allowed her to fight in disregard of the infection risk, an advantage that maybe three people in a million had in common with her.