Chapter 1.6 – The Receipt
To stop a hellspawn, you shoot the head. That's what he learned from a cellmate—right before snapping the bastard's neck.
Bang. Bang bang.The metallic-legged young man squeezed the trigger with a calm precision. His aim—razor-sharp and lightning fast—was the mark of a former IPSC silver medalist. Two undead cops guarding the stairwell dropped like puppets with cut strings, clean shots through the skull.
The gunfire drew attention.Three more zombies behind the front desk began dragging their rotting feet toward him....Shit...Bang. Bang bang. Bang bang bang.The shots tore through their torsos and heads. They crumpled mid-step, no time to groan. Even after months without handling a gun, the sharpshooting instincts of a former combat sport pro didn't let a single bullet go to waste.
Gantsuke panted, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead despite the building's bone-chilling air. The rubber soles of his boots slapped against the tiled floor, echoing alongside the droning hum of the air-conditioning.What once was a crisp, sterile breeze now stank of blood and scattered flesh, the scent heavy and metallic.
He squinted at the twisted corpses of the zombie cops—limbs bent at unnatural angles. Carefully stepping over the body of a female officer, a bullet hole clean through her forehead, he tried not to slip on the pool of thick black blood soaking the tiles.
Taking a deep breath, Gantsuke turned toward a large city map hanging behind the reception desk. Right beside a dusty desktop computer, a rack of tourist brochures sat untouched.
He scanned the area.Deep breath. Steady ears. Listening for even the faintest shuffle or breath of the undead behind the counter.Silence.Nothing.
Cautiously, the iron-legged man stepped forward and browsed through the brochures.
The pamphlet listed numerous tourist destinations, and one caught his eye—a designated city shelter, roughly twenty kilometers from the police station, tucked inside a cave near the base of a mountain ridge.
Gantsuke frowned.Could he really make it through the zombie-infested streets?Probably not... but it was something.
A wave of hot wind blew through the half-open front door. Reflexively, he turned and hurried to shut it, just in case something—or someone—decided to wander in. Near the entrance stood a vending machine duo: one for snacks, the other for juice. Bright logos of the "Eleven" brand gleamed under the flickering hallway lights.
His stomach growled.He hadn't eaten since being brought here. Getting some sugar into his bloodstream might help him think straight.
He lifted his steel leg, ready to smash the glass——but froze.
Too loud.Too risky.Could bring every freak in the district to the buffet.
...Goddamn it...He smirked bitterly. Great. Now he had to find some damn change.
Gantsuke walked back to the reception desk and crouched to dig through its drawers. Just lottery tickets, used pens, and scrap paper. No coins. He glanced up at a dead officer slumped on a bench behind the desk—his face stuck in a grotesque smile, like a knockoff Ronald McDonald, a bullet wound right through the side of his head.
No choice, huh… he muttered, then stood and nudged the officer's body sideways with his metal leg.
"Ugh, smells like hell."He turned his face away, disgusted—and a little anxious. He didn't know whether zombie infections in real life spread only through bites, and he wasn't about to take chances. But still… an army marches on its stomach.
"John Wick, huh?"He read the name tag on the corpse's uniform as he searched the pockets.
His fingers brushed against something solid. A key, wrapped in a bright yellow post-it note.
To J—The M4's ready. I've stored it in Armory Locker 12.Have fun at the range.—Roy
He slipped the key and the note into his pocket.
Then came the wallet. In the other pocket, a touchscreen phone. Lucky break—the screen was locked with a fingerprint, not a password.
He used the corpse's finger to unlock it. Changed a few settings. Eighty percent battery. Full signal. Dozens of unread messages and missed calls.
Gantsuke slid the phone into his back pocket. Then opened the wallet.Plenty of cash."Dude had a heavy wallet…" he murmured, pocketing the bills.
"Hmm?"Something caught his eye—a receipt had fallen out.
He picked it up and read:
2 boxes of armor-piercing rounds
1 titanium-alloy Bowie knife
"The hell was this guy prepping for?" Gantsuke frowned.
In his time in Afghanistan, that type of ammo was used against tanks—or at least, armored vehicles.
He checked the corpse's belt—found handcuffs and a keyring with four keys. He took them without hesitation.
Done with the search, he stood and walked over to the vending machines.
Interstellar warfare had pushed weapons tech far beyond Earth. But peacekeeping forces on each planet were limited to standard-issue arms. That M4? More than enough to kill a human.
In the station's armory, Gantsuke found a tactical belt and a forty-liter military backpack. With it, he could carry four 40-round magazines for the M4, plus three mags for his sidearm.
He left the police station through the east-side exit, which connected to the parking lot.Two patrol cars.One prisoner transport truck.But the gate—once separating the parking lot from the outside street—had been smashed by a trailer truck, now wrecked and blocking the exit.
No way a vehicle could pass through.So Gantsuke squeezed himself through a gap in the crumbled wall.
"This place is turning into hell..."He muttered to himself, gun up, eyes sharp, scanning the street ahead.