Chapter 1.4 – Zombies

The decaying hand shot through the iron bars, forcing Gantzuke to stumble backward.

The gaping wound on its neck, oozing thick black blood, reminded him of lion bite marks he'd once seen on a tribal warrior back on Earth.

He held his breath as thick drool dripped from its rotting lips, mixing with the putrid stench of spoiled ocean fish.

"Hrrggh... grrhh..." the zombie cop bared its teeth, ramming its head against the bars until its forehead split open in a fresh wound.

"You must be starving," Gantzuke muttered, stepping closer. The undead's clawed hand reached straight for his throat—just one palm's length away.

He chuckled under his breath.

Quick as a flash, he slipped off his jacket and wrapped it around the zombie's arm, tying it tightly with a knot they definitely didn't teach in Boy Scouts.

Its grotesque fingers flexed and clenched, desperate to grab something—anything—to bite.

"Grrhh... hrraaagh..." It gnashed its teeth on the bars like a famished hound sniffing at the scent of roasted meat it couldn't reach.

Gantzuke glanced at the door to his right, then yanked the zombie's arm violently to the left.

Crack.

Bone and tendon snapped as he wrenched its limb across the bars and tied it tightly, crucifixion-style, to the opposite side.

He was surprised by the complete lack of pain response. No screams, no howls. Just blank, animal hunger. He'd seen zombie movies, played survival games growing up—but nothing came close to this.

"Let's do this." He took a deep breath and dove in, snatching the key ring from the creature's belt.

"Ugh..." he flicked away the sticky mix of spit and blood now coating the keys.

"Grrraagh!" the zombie lunged with its other arm. Gantzuke barely dodged out of reach.

"Whoa, easy there, champ," he smirked. It looked secure enough—but better safe than sorry.

"You won't be needing this anymore," he said, picking up the blood-soaked shirt from the headless inmate earlier. Twisting it into a loop, he bound the zombie's other arm to the bars.

Now it looked like some undead superhero mid-transformation, arms spread wide in a grotesque pose.

Gantzuke took a step back, admiring his handiwork. Then his eyes dropped to the keys.

The jail key stood out—larger and heavier than the rest.

"Grrr... hrrrhh..." the zombie's milky-white eyes rolled to follow his every move. Its jaw hung open, drooling like a braindead toddler staring at a smarter kid's toy.

"Perfect fit," he muttered, twisting the key into the cell lock.

Click.

The metal scraped with a high-pitched shriek.

He froze. Eyes wide. Straining his ears toward the hallway 20 meters to the right.

Nothing.

He exhaled in relief.

Eeeeeeeek.

Another screech as he pushed the gate open.

"Grrraaghh... grrrhhh..." the zombie struggled, desperate to crawl after him. Gantzuke gave it a long look. The cop must've been handsome in life.

It slipped in its own blood, but the tied arms kept it suspended, twitching like a broken marionette.

"Chomp-chomp. Gnaaarrr!"

"Jesus..." Gantzuke leaned back just out of biting range. He knew he was safe, but still—the sheer hunger in that thing's eyes gave him goosebumps.

Thump. Thump.

It thrashed, furious, as Gantzuke quietly backed away.

You're not eating me today, he thought, smirking, cracking open the door into the guard station.

Inside was a tiny square room, no bigger than a mall bathroom. Another door led deeper into the station, smeared with blood. On the left, a concrete wall with a barred ventilation window. On the right, a desk with a police cap and six metal lockers built into the wall.

A red spray-painted cross marked the last one as a first-aid kit.

Gantzuke glanced down at the bloody floor.

"What the hell happened here?" he muttered, stepping over the smears toward the lockers.

"All locked, of course," he cursed.

Then remembered—the keys.

Among the ten or so keys was one marked 05 on a scrap of tape. He checked the locker number.

Dead match.