Chapter 1.5 – The Grey Cop
He fumbled through the dark, searching for anything that felt like a gun—or at least something solid enough to make him feel safe.
His hand landed on a flashlight. He clicked it on.
The cold LED beam cut through the darkness, reflecting off the sleek surface of a black pistol and a half-full box of .45 caliber bullets.
"Perfect," Gantzuke smirked.
He slid the keyring into his back pocket, then picked up the pistol. It felt suspiciously light—empty, he realized. His gut instinct screamed, and he turned toward the bars.
The zombie cop was chewing through the fabric he'd tied around its arms.
Oh, for fuck's sake... he mouthed silently.
Moving quickly, he shut the door, killed the flashlight, and popped out the magazine. Empty. No surprise there.
Seriously? He cursed the officer who hadn't kept it loaded.
Sliding the pistol into the back of his waistband, Gantzuke opened the box and began loading bullets. He'd done this a thousand times before, but this time his hands felt slow, clumsy—each bullet a struggle.
Thud!
The zombie cop thrashed violently. One arm had broken free. It stumbled forward, yanking hard against the other arm still bound.
"Hrrgghh... rrrahhh..." It roared, bending down to bite at the restraint still holding it back.
Gantzuke squinted at the reinforced steel door connecting the control room to the holding cells. There was a narrow hatch in the middle—just big enough to peek through.
Click.
He loaded the final round.
Before he could even lift the pistol—
"Freeze! Hands up!"
The shout came from the left.
Gantzuke flinched. You've got to be kidding me…
"I said drop the weapon, now!" the cop ordered, voice sharp and on edge.
Gantzuke slowly placed the magazine on the desk next to a police cap.
"Hands up. Turn around. Slowly."
He obeyed. No point pissing off a twitchy cop pointing a loaded gun at your skull.
"You're that cripple I booked earlier tonight."
The officer was sweating bullets.
This dumb bastard again… Gantzuke exhaled sharply.
"Listen, I can expla—"
WHAM!
A punch drove deep into his gut. He crumpled to the floor, curled up in agony.
Motherf—... The pain in his abdomen had him gasping like a fish on dry land.
"How the hell did you get out? And why do you have Owen's locker key?!" the cop shouted, slapping cuffs on him and chaining his arms behind a chair.
"You piece of shit..." Gantzuke wheezed.
"Where's Owen's gun?" The cop's voice dropped, eyes flicking to the magazine on the table.
"I said where the fuck is it?!" he yelled again, jamming the pistol into Gantzuke's forehead and patting him down.
The cold muzzle, the smell of gun oil—it didn't scare Gantzuke. It pissed him off.
"Up your mom's ass," he hissed.
"Smart mouth, huh?"
WHAM!
Another punch. Same spot. Gantzuke gasped, stars exploding behind his eyes.
"If Owen's hurt, I swear I'll make you regret it," the cop snarled, pressing the barrel against his cheek.
"You already cuffed me, genius. Feel free to search deeper," Gantzuke gritted out, forcing himself to breathe through the pain.
The cop scoffed, turned, and headed for the jail wing.
Gantzuke narrowed his eyes. The dumb bastard was entering the cellblock—clearly assuming someone might be waiting to ambush him.
What a fucking idiot, he muttered, tilting his head back and discreetly fishing for Owen's keyring from his back pocket.
I wonder if she's still alive... The image of the beautiful hotel manager flashed across his mind as he finally unlocked the cuffs.
"Rest in pieces, pal," he whispered.
The cop's back disappeared into the cell corridor. Gantzuke whistled softly and ducked beneath the desk.
There it was—a black pistol on the floor, gleaming just for him.
CANDY was what his fellow officers called him. Kennedy Kalamoseves—young, eager, and always broke. He was known to "adjust" reports for anyone who could pay.
Today, he'd shaken down some street punk, then pinned the robbery on a cripple from Earth—who was now, inexplicably, whistling like he owned the goddamn station.
What the hell is wrong with this guy? The whistle and smile gave Candy chills—reminded him of a villain about to break free and take revenge.
I should've shot him when I had the chance, he thought, stepping into the jail block.
He sighed with relief. No flickering lights. No horror-movie bullshit. Just silence... and that blood-stained rag tied to the bars of Owen's cell.
How the hell did you get out, you gimpy freak?
He crept forward, heart pounding.
The only reason he was back here at all... was Owen.
His beloved hadn't come home. The city was falling apart, and deep down he knew. But Candy needed to see it himself—needed to know.
Oh God...
Owen was kneeling in his cell.
Feasting.
Chewing on a body.
Candy froze. Ice spread through his veins.
The pale face—the face that once lay beside him in bed, gashed and soaked in blood—turned to stare back with empty, milky eyes.
Candy's pistol trembled in his grip. He looked at Owen's mangled arms... then at the shreds of cloth tying him to the bars.
You... you bastard... Rage overwhelmed grief.
"You hurt my Owen!" he screamed.
"I'LL KILL YOU! I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU!" Candy stormed out of the cell.
As he stormed back toward the control room—
Wait.
I didn't close that door...
His eyes widened.
Someone had scribbled a crude dick and the words "FUCK YOU" across the window with a black marker.
Back in the control room, Gantzuke calmly finished loading the pistol. He heard pounding fists, desperate screams, gunshots—three of them—then one long, bloody shriek.
"Later, asshole," he muttered, flipping the bird toward the distorted, blood-smeared face behind the glass.
Then he grabbed his gear and crept up the stairs—one floor closer to freedom.