"As far as I know, Mr. Limo lives alone," Molly said, pointing toward the third unit of a four-story townhouse across the street. The lot could fit two cars, maybe more.She didn't know much about him—just that he'd been flirting with her mom for a while.
Gantzuke adjusted the black ballistic vest strapped over his chest. The faded white "P.E." on the front marked it as property of the Ether Police.With a white T-shirt underneath and army-green tactical pants, he looked more like a Cold War-era jungle soldier than a modern cop.
He double-checked his pistol, extra mags, flashlight—gear scavenged from the police station.Jail, as it turned out, had been pretty damn useful.
"Thanks, Mari."He smiled as she handed him a water bottle, then slung an empty military rucksack over one shoulder.
Mari wanted to go with him, but she knew he'd move faster alone.
The rolling steel shutter squealed as they lifted it to knee height. The sound echoed like thunder through the hollow street.As soon as Gantzuke slipped out, the girls dropped the shutter and locked it back into place.
He stepped into the full glare of noon sun. Hot, yes—but it beat the shadows, where the undead liked to hide.
They clung to the dark like gremlins, afraid of daylight's burn.
He raised an arm to block the stench wafting from nearby alleys—rot, blood, and something far worse.Nothing moved.He swept his gaze across the block before moving forward.
To his left, a white four-door truck had crashed through the front of the first building—right into someone's living room.In the gloom behind a toppled sofa, he spotted them: three figures, unmoving.A father. A mother. A daughter.
"Shit..."His jaw clenched. How many more families had ended like this?
He tapped the side of his rifle, forcing himself back to focus.Just because it was bright didn't mean they were safe.
He passed a mangled black sedan. The driver's side door was open, blood smeared up the seat.A shattered laptop and some crumpled papers lay nearby.The airbag drooped from the steering wheel like a deflated balloon—or an old woman's sagging breast.The key was still in the ignition, but after crashing into a tree, the car was toast.
Further down, neat rows of potted flowers sat under small trees—maybe six of them—in front of each unit.Benches. Clean sidewalks. No blood.
"Rich folks' block..."He muttered, eyeing the secure keypad entry on Unit 2 before stopping at Unit 3.
There it was.
The black Hummer.
Sleek. Polished. Ready.
Then he looked up.
Mounted four meters high, bolted into the red-brick wall, was a black orb with a shining glass eye.A wide-angle military-grade security cam.The lens followed him.
…Are you watching me right now?He swallowed hard, feeling its gaze like a sniper's scope.
Five marble steps led to the gate.Next to it, a small touchscreen and a gleaming metal keypad.Above it, a red button with white text:"Visitors: Press & Speak."
He pressed the button.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Limo."
A crackling voice answered."What do you want?"
Gantzuke froze. His heart skipped.
He hadn't expected anyone to actually be here.His plan was simple: break in, borrow the Hummer, leave.
"Uh… we were hoping to borrow your car," he said sheepishly, scratching his head.
"You think I don't know what you're up to, you backwater little punk?"The voice snapped, sharp and cold.
Gantzuke stood frozen like a kid caught stealing gum.
But then, after a long pause…
"Come in. And wipe your damn shoes when you pass through the garden. I hate dirty floors."
Gantzuke blinked.
He hesitated—like the first time he almost ordered an escort online.The pictures were perfect, the descriptions flawless—but you never really knew what you were getting.
Still, he stepped forward when the gate clicked open.
Solid place. Could make a decent safehouse, he thought, admiring the thick red-brick walls.
The door shut behind him with a solid clunk.He wiped his boots on the welcome mat, watching the dust and dried blood smear the navy-blue fibers.
"See that basket on your left?"The voice returned.
He turned. A large woven basket sat nearby, filled with cat toys.
"Put your gun in there."No room for argument in that tone.
Gantzuke sighed.He was already inside. Not many choices left.
He obeyed, then turned toward a security cam on the ceiling and gave it a casual spin.
"Smart move," the voice said with a chuckle.
Gantzuke forced a weak smile.Still not sure if this was smart—or very, very stupid.
"Come up to the second floor. Stairs at the end of the hall. And don't try anything funny. I'm watching you."
He shrugged and walked forward.
Past a sliding door to the right was a living room—sofas, TV. Cozy.The walls to the left were lined with framed photographs.
A man with a magnificent mustache, frozen at various stages of life.
As a boy holding a vintage revolver.As a teen with a giant M60 machine gun.And finally, an older version, smiling as he cradled a fat, smoky-gray cat.
"Cat person. Hardcore," Gantzuke thought, pausing at the last photo.
"Stop there."The voice echoed again—from a speaker above the staircase.
"What now…" Gantzuke muttered, looking up.
"Grab a beer for me. Kitchen's right behind you."
He rolled his eyes.Maybe the guy was lazy. Maybe arthritic.Or maybe just liked giving orders.
Inside the kitchen stood a glass-door fridge like something out of a fancy convenience store.Stocked to the brim—beers, liquors, mixers. All top-shelf.
"Two Bludweisers for me. Help yourself to anything."The voice crackled again from behind.
…He's got cameras everywhere... creepy bastard.
Gantzuke grabbed three tall cans—red and white with gold barley graphics and the name Bludweiser scripted across them.
The stairs led to a second-floor studio-like space.Open. Clean.
At the center, seated cross-legged on a low couch, was a man in a white T-shirt and khaki shorts.A half-bitten cigar dangled from his lips—unlit.
"Come on in," he said, waving casually."My throat's getting dry over here."
Like they were old friends.