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8000 zombies killed 🧟⚰️

Frank leans back against the wall of the crypt, his shotgun still smoking from the last round. He takes a deep breath, but quickly regrets it, he’s been in there so long that the stench of rotting flesh feels like it's permanently lodged in his nose. He wipes a mix of sweat and grime off his forehead, shaking his head with a laugh.

“8,000 zombs… If my family could see me now, they’d probably say I smell worse than the undead,” he mutters to himself, chuckling despite the exhaustion. It’s been a wild ride in this crypt, using his trusty super shotgun and that endless supply of ammo like a kid in a candy store, blasting away at everything that shuffled his way.

The place was packed with the nastiest of them, and Frank had moments where he thought he might not make it out. But, as always, he got a bit of help from his fellow hunters. One of them, a young doc, patched him up more times than he could count. “Guess I owe a few rounds of beers after this one,” he notes, rubbing the spot where a particularly feisty zombie had taken a chunk out of his arm.

After finally staggering out of the crypt, he took a long shower. Well, several showers. But even now, walking in the open air, he swears he can still catch a whiff of that zombie funk clinging to him. “I could bathe in perfume and still smell like a crypt keeper,” he jokes, wrinkling his nose.

Hitting that 8,000 mark feels surreal. It's a milestone his younger self would've been thrilled about. And even now, with all the years behind him, he feels that same spark of excitement.“Alright, time to gear up for the next 8,000,” Frank says with a grin, feeling every bit like the legendary hunter he’s become, despite the smell.