Ryo took a slow, deep breath, calming himself as he walked toward the police station entrance. He held the gun he had taken from one of the zombie officers tightly. The weight of the weapon felt strange but comforting in his hands. Each step felt heavier, the silence around him pressing down like a heavy weight.
The glass doors were slightly open, covered in dried blood. Handprints smeared the surface, like someone had tried to escape. Inside, the station was dark and quiet, lit only by the dim light coming through dirty windows.
It's too quiet.
His instincts told him to turn back, to give up on this dangerous plan. But he pushed the thought away. He needed more than just one gun to survive in this world. There was no other choice.
Swallowing his fear, Ryo pushed the door open. The hinges creaked loudly in the silence, and he froze, listening for any movement.
Nothing.
Only the distant sound of low, guttural groans echoing through the halls.
He stepped inside, his boots barely making a sound on the cracked floor. The smell of decay filled the air, thick and sickening. Blood was splattered on the walls, some old and dried, some fresh. Bullet holes covered the front desk, where people had tried—and failed—to fight back.
Ryo breathed out slowly, forcing himself to focus.
Move. Get in, find the weapons, get out.
He knew staying too long was dangerous. But the deeper he went, the more he felt something was wrong. A quiet voice in his mind warned him.
Ryo moved carefully down the main hallway, holding the pistol tightly at his side. The hallway was long, with closed doors on both sides—each one hiding a mystery, each one a possible danger. His heart raced. Behind any door, something could be waiting. Watching.
Stay alert. Check everything.
He took a deep breath and started his search.
The first room had only overturned desks and scattered papers, the remains of an office frozen in time. The second room had broken filing cabinets, their contents spilled on the floor. He kept going, checking each room carefully, but found nothing useful. The station had been emptied—either by survivors before him or by the chaos of the outbreak.
He clenched his fists, frustration growing. There has to be something here.
Then, he saw it—faded words on a metal door at the end of the hall.
"Armory."
For the first time since entering the station, his heart raced not from fear, but from hope.
Without wasting time, Ryo tried the handle. Locked. Of course. He noticed a keycard scanner on the side. A problem, but not impossible to solve. He had seen dead officers in the lobby, their belts full of gear.
One of them must have access.
He turned and walked back quickly, his eyes scanning the floor. It didn't take long—one of the dead officers near the front desk still had a keycard on his belt. Ryo crouched, careful of sudden movement, and quickly took the card.
Back at the armory, he swiped the card. A beep, then a loud click.
He pushed the door open.
Rows of shelves greeted him, filled with shiny guns, boxes of bullets, and riot gear covered in dust. Shotguns, handguns, rifles—an untouched arsenal, waiting.
For the first time in days, he felt relief.
Ryo didn't waste time. He grabbed a backpack from the shelf and started filling it with boxes of bullets, making sure to take different types. A Glock, a shotgun, even a small rifle—all weapons he could carry without being too slow.
As Ryo searched through the weapons and bullets, a strange feeling crept up his spine. He couldn't explain it, but something felt... wrong.
Almost every zombie he had seen so far showed signs of a fight—deep cuts, claw marks, even broken limbs. Their movements were slow, as if they had been weakened before he arrived.
But by what?
Zombies didn't attack each other. That much was clear. And if there had been survivors here, strong enough to cause this kind of damage, where were they now?
The silence in the station was heavy. No voices, no signs of human life. Only the smell of blood and decay.
Ryo pushed the questions aside. Focus. Get what you need and get out.
Quickly, he filled his bag—boxes of bullets, extra magazines, and enough weapons to last him through whatever danger waited outside. A Glock for reliability, a shotgun for close fights, and a small rifle for longer distances. Every item he took was a lifeline, a way to survive.
With his backpack ready and a pistol in his hand, he turned toward the door.
Then, he heard it.
A sound so quiet he almost missed it over the sound of his own heartbeat.
Footsteps.
Slow. Careful.
Coming from deep inside the police station.
Ryo froze. His body tensed, every muscle ready to move. His breath caught as he listened carefully.
Not a zombie.
Zombies shuffled. They dragged their feet, moved in strange ways. These steps were different. Controlled. Purposeful.
Someone—or something—was in here with him.
A cold fear settled in his stomach.
He was not alone.
( End of Chapter )