Sorry, Rick, These Guns Are Mine

The road was very quiet, with hardly any zombies encountered. Leon guessed that over the month since the disaster began, the monsters on the roads had likely been lured away by passing vehicles.

They were extremely sensitive to sound. In the early days of the catastrophe, the artillery fire from the military in the big cities would continuously draw in zombies from the surrounding areas.

Only those poor souls trapped inside buildings or cramped corners were still waiting for prey to come to them.

After driving for about ten minutes, the King County police station appeared before Leon.

Staring at the locked iron gate, Leon awkwardly realized a problem: he didn't have a key to the police station.

The protagonist Rick could bring people in and out freely because he was a King County sheriff—the station was his turf.

What should I do? Go find the key to Rick's house? The armory inside the station—without a key, it should be pretty hard to open, right?

Suddenly, a scene from the TV series popped into Leon's mind.

Right! That zombified sheriff.

Leon grabbed his weapon and walked along the path beside the main building. After about two hundred meters, he spotted the back of the station.

It was the rear entrance, a basketball court enclosed by a chain-link fence.

Looking up, he saw a figure in a police uniform aimlessly wandering around the court.

That's him. I think his name is also Leon, huh. What a coincidence.

Leon whistled at the figure. The sharp sound immediately caught its attention.

Like a dog receiving a command, it twisted its body, revealing its ugly, rotting face. Spotting Leon as a living person, an endless surge of energy seemed to well up inside it.

The zombified sheriff crawled forward, lurching and stumbling as it lunged at Leon.

Clang!

The chain-link fence bulged outward under the pressure. The barrier blocked the zombie's movements, rendering all its efforts useless. But these monsters had no concept of giving up in their minds.

The zombie sheriff opened its wide mouth, roaring, its head pressed stubbornly against the fence. The rotting flesh of its face was torn to shreds by the metal wires, ugly and grotesque.

Leon stepped to within a foot of the zombie, a flicker of disgust rising in his heart. He pulled a dagger from his belt, aimed the tip at the zombie's eye socket, and stabbed down hard.

Thud!

The dagger sank in more than halfway. The zombie's body went rigid, its movements ceasing instantly. It slumped limply against the fence, the light fading from its eyes.

Facing a zombie this time, he felt no fear at all.

Leon slowly pulled out the dagger, wiped the filth off on the corpse in front of him, and casually tucked it back into his belt.

He realized that once you found the right method, these zombies became easy to deal with.

It took ten minutes. Through the chain-link fence, Leon used a hook to retrieve the keys from the zombie sheriff's body.

After testing them one by one, he finally entered the station through the side door.

Once inside, he didn't let his guard down. In the TV series, there were no zombies in the station, but who knew if something unexpected might happen?

Luckily, the station was perfectly safe. Nothing went wrong.

It took about an hour. Leon carefully searched every room, and the haul left him pleasantly surprised.

Over a dozen firearms of different models, thousands of rounds of ammunition. He even found bulletproof vests, riot gear, and other defensive equipment in the armory.

What thrilled him most was the stash of over a dozen sets of police radio communication gear in the station.

In this era of lost communication, these devices, capable of mid-to-long-range contact, were practically divine artifacts.

Hey, I really can't figure it out. This guy Rick is sitting on a treasure trove and doesn't even know it.

In the original story, he just drove off in a beat-up car with a few crappy guns.

Seriously, did he think the apocalypse was a camping trip?

But it works out for me now. It all falls into my lap.

Don't worry, once I get a foothold in Atlanta, I'll come back and give you a hand.

The station had its own independent water and power supply.

Leon took a long-overdue hot shower, changed into a spare police uniform left behind by someone, and scrounged up some food from the public kitchen for a meal. He finally managed a proper rest.

After eating and drinking his fill, Leon inventoried the supplies while mentally planning his actions for the next day.

There was too much stuff here. His Chevrolet sports car couldn't possibly carry all of it.

Waste is shameful.

Hmm, there seemed to be a prisoner transport van parked in front of the station. The body was reinforced with bulletproof panels.

It was ugly, sure, but in times like these, it was way more practical than the Chevrolet sports car.

I'll check the storage room later. I should be able to find the keys.

Leon's thoughts wandered aimlessly.

After resting a bit, he searched for the keys, drove the van, and transferred the supplies. Busy and bustling, he worked until eight in the evening before finishing all the preparations.

He drove the prisoner van into the basketball court behind the station, locked all the doors, and kept the van keys on his person. Being cautious couldn't hurt.

With everything done, Leon found the common lounge in the station, covered himself with a blanket left behind by someone, and lay down to sleep.

That night, he had many strange dreams.

Some belonged to Hu Sheng, some to Leon Castor, and others were nonsensical, bizarre and grotesque.

The next morning, around six o'clock, Leon woke up.

The peculiar energy within his body was indeed powerful; he felt his physical condition had returned to its peak, full of vitality and drive, with even a slight increase in his strength and constitution.

This bolstered his confidence considerably.

The Atlanta CDC was roughly over eighty kilometers from King County.

If the road went smoothly, setting out now would get him there by two in the afternoon.

Clutching a map he'd found in the office, Leon made up his mind—he would leave immediately, the sooner the better.

If he could successfully reach a consensus with the researchers inside the CDC, it would be a massive boon for his future.

Hopefully, things would go smoothly.

--

June 10, 2010, Atlanta CDC.

"Jenner, is there any of Sample 18 left?"

Dr. Melpha Pascal furrowed her brow. Months of failed experiments had left her mentally exhausted.

What troubled her more was that after the military withdrew, the CDC lost all logistical support. Official organizations subsequently went silent, and they could no longer receive any outside information.

From that point on, the researchers were gripped by panic, unable to focus on their work. Some fled, some committed suicide. In just half a month, only the two of them—Husband and wife—remained at their posts.

But now, even the experimental samples could no longer be replenished.

Dr. Jenner licked his lips, looked at his wife, and said in a hoarse voice:

"Sorry, Melpha. Sample 18 is completely used up."

"We have to obtain new samples if we want to continue the experiment."

"Is that so?"

Dr. Melpha tucked a strand of her golden hair behind her ear, acknowledged him with a single word, and said nothing more.

As the head of research at the CDC and the director of the Wildfire Project, she knew better than anyone that everything they were doing now was futile. The CDC's biggest problem wasn't the samples.

What they lacked was energy, a continuous supply of provisions. Even with the entire CDC now in energy-saving mode, their power supply could last at most another month.

That amount of time meant nothing. Developing a serum wasn't like doing laundry or cooking; it was a long-term, massive undertaking. The time required was measured in years—five, ten, even twenty years—before any results might be achieved.

But did it even matter anymore?

By then, how many humans would be left?

Was there any organization that could support the CDC for over a decade?

Sigh. We've already failed.

Melpha turned to look at her husband. He was simple, a bit foolish—a somewhat rigid bookworm.

But he was also the person in the entire world who loved her the most.

What should I do to save you, Jenner?

Just then, a steady voice suddenly came through the headset connected to the front gate.

"Hey!"

"Is anyone there?"

"I am Leon Castor."

"I want to talk to you."

(Don't worry, everyone. The author is a man of principle. He'll definitely study hard and won't drop this story.)