The sharp wail of the police siren gradually lowered as they approached their destination, finally dying down with a hoarse gasp as they reached the block designated "Southwest Street ST1206".
Before the car had even fully stopped, Sam's brain had already run through several crisis simulations.
The core strategy was simple: maintain distance, aim for the head, and always watch his back for ambushes.
If things got out of control and he was surrounded, jump back in the car, floor it, and head out of the city first.
He didn't know the map, but he could always 'invite' his partner John along for a strategic retreat.
Of course, that was the worst-case scenario.
Maybe things weren't that bad yet.
The system did say it was the initial stage of the "crisis outbreak".
The immediate priority was to deal with what was in front of him, then find a chance to get guns and gear—being stuck in the city when the zombies truly swarmed would be suicide for thrill-seekers only.
"Hey, snap out of it, rookie!" John's gruff voice interrupted his doomsday fantasies. "We're here. Get out and let's work."
He efficiently unbuckled his seatbelt while radioing in concisely, "Unit 714 is on scene."
Sam swallowed hard, his heart pounding against his ribs as if trying to escape.
He pushed the car door open and stepped out.
His right hand almost instinctively pressed against the holster on his hip, fingers unconsciously tracing the cold, solid outline of his issued Glock pistol, as if the piece of metal could lend him some courage.
"Sam, aren't you overreacting a bit?" John glanced at him after getting out, frowning at Sam's on-edge stance, hand hovering near his weapon. "First time on scene and you're this tense? Relax, buddy, follow procedure."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"Remember, we're cops, not cowboys. Warn first! Loudly order him to stop attacking, get on the ground! Only if he ignores the warning, and you reasonably believe he's about to cause death or serious bodily harm to you or someone else, can you consider using lethal force. Don't you fucking fire randomly, or even if you miss, the Internal Affairs investigation and hearing afterward will skin you alive. Got it?"
"Got it, John. I… I'm fine, just…" Sam tried to steady his breathing, attempting a casual, unsuspicious tone as he voiced the question nagging at him, "Don't you think… the whole 'biting' thing is just weird? Like a rabid dog or a wild animal… Or, like in the movies, where people completely lose their minds and turn into… something else?"
"What the hell are you talking about?" John glanced sideways at Sam, his brow furrowed slightly. "Turn into something else? Kid, this is your first time out, right?"
He sounded amused, with a hint of a veteran cop's cynicism.
"You'll see plenty more, you'll understand. Druggies high out of their minds on the street? Nothing they do is surprising anymore. Let me tell you, I once saw a guy high on something, jerking off while trying to pick a fight with a fire hydrant. Biting? Yeah, it's weird, but definitely within their range of 'normal'."
"Okay, I guess… but I still think it's weird."
Truthfully, Sam had seen plenty of guys tripping balls in the VIP rooms back at the strip club, running out into the main hall acting crazy. Druggies could do anything abnormal, and it would be considered normal for them.] [But now, he knew with absolute certainty this wasn't some junkie.
All he could do now was try to warn his partner as much as possible, so they could react quickly if something happened. And maybe John could protect him a little.] [Having an experienced cop who could shoot straight as a partner definitely increased his survival odds for this mission.
Soon, they reached the incident location.
Cars were parked silently along the street, no pedestrians in sight.
It was eerily quiet.
On the ground, several patches of dark red, already coagulating blood stood out starkly under the afternoon sun.
Other than that, nothing.
The scene was empty.
No attacker in purple, no injured victims, not even a frightened witness left behind.
"What the hell?" John stared at the empty scene, confusion written all over his face, habitually rubbing his chin. "Did everyone just vanish? Ambulance already came? No way they were that fast… Even the caller is gone?"
In all his years on the force, he'd never encountered a scene this bizarrely clean, where both victim and attacker had disappeared without a trace.
Then, he noticed Sam beside him—the rookie had drawn his Glock at some point and was holding it tightly in both hands, muzzle pointed down in a low ready position.
[Now Sam looked like a skeet shooter waiting for the clay pigeon to launch,] his muscles tense, eyes sharply scanning every building entrance, alley shadow, and gap between cars along both sides of the street.
"What's got you so jumpy now?" John asked, noticing Sam's continued tension and watchful gaze.
Sam quickly confirmed no immediate threats nearby, then walked over to John, lowering his voice even more.
"John, doesn't this feel fucking creepy to you? The injured people who should be on the ground, the biter… all gone, just blood left. Something's wrong. We shouldn't hang around out here too long. Let's get back in the car, at least."
"Hmm… you got a point there. This scene is unnervingly clean." John rubbed his chin, agreeing with Sam's caution. "Alright, standing here's useless. I'll radio dispatch, then we'll cruise the nearby blocks, see if we can spot any witnesses or clues."
But then his tone shifted, his gaze falling on Sam's hand still hovering near his holstered weapon.
His voice turned stern.
"But speaking of which, Sam, aren't you being way too jumpy? Now! Holster your weapon, safety on! I told you, unless there's a clear, immediate threat, keep your damn hands off your gun!"
"Yes! Yes! Okay, John!" Sam, as if granted amnesty, immediately holstered his weapon securely and engaged the safety.
He almost jogged back to the passenger side of the patrol car, pulled the door open, but still kept a wary eye on his surroundings.
John radioed dispatch, concisely reporting the unusual situation ("…Scene is clear, no suspect or victims located, only blood evidence remaining. Unit 714 will patrol the surrounding area, out."), then got back behind the wheel.
He started the car, and the patrol vehicle slowly pulled away from the quiet, blood-stained street, beginning to cruise the adjacent blocks at a slow speed, the tires making a monotonous sound on the pavement.
A temporary silence fell inside the car, broken only by occasional chatter from the radio.
Sam's mind was racing.
Finally, he couldn't hold back anymore and tentatively started a conversation. "Hey… John."
"Hmm?" John replied absently, eyes fixed on the road ahead.
"Don't you think… what happened back there… felt kind of like… something out of a movie?" Sam chose his words carefully.
"A movie?" John didn't seem to get it. "You mean like those cop dramas, or some cheap horror flick? Being a cop, you see all kinds of weird shit."
"No, that's not what I meant…" Sam took a deep breath, deciding to be more direct. "I mean like… those… zombie movies?"
"Zombie?" John repeated the word, brow furrowed, his tone filled with pure, unadulterated confusion. "What the hell is that? Some new drug slang?"
"You… you don't know what a 'zombie' is?!" Now it was Sam's turn to be dumbfounded. He couldn't believe his ears. "You know… the living dead! Undead! People infected by a virus, no reason, just biting and spreading it everywhere! They're all over movies and TV shows! And video games, fighting zombies is super common, right?"
"Movies? You mean those scary ones with the creepy covers you only find in the back corner of the video rental store?" John looked even more bewildered. "TV shows? I watch the news and sports channels every day, never seen anything about 'zombies' on TV. And lastly… what the hell are 'video games'? You mean like Pac-Man at the arcade? Or… those role-playing gatherings where people dress up in costumes?"
Sam's heart sank completely.
John's reaction was too genuine; he wasn't playing dumb.
He truly… had no knowledge of these pop culture concepts that were practically common sense in Sam's original world.
This world's cultural development, or at least its entertainment industry, seemed off.
"Wait," Sam's voice was dry from shock, "John, maybe a dumb question… but what year is it exactly?"
"What year?" John turned to look at him incredulously, as if Sam had just escaped a mental hospital. "What the hell is wrong with you today, kid? It's the year 2000."
[Two thousand…] The words hit Sam's consciousness like a sledgehammer.[Shit, it really is the year 2000… but a world where concepts like 'zombies' and modern 'video games' aren't common knowledge?] An absurd yet incredibly tempting thought flashed through his mind:[ If it weren't for this sudden bullshit zombie crisis… I should be figuring out how to get money, go to New York, make sure to get a picture under the Twin Towers before September next year, then leverage every cent I can get my hands on, no, borrow every cent I can, and short the hell out of the US stock market… That wouldn't just be getting rich.]
"Alright, kid, level with me," John suddenly turned his head, his gaze sharp as a knife, locking onto Sam, his voice tight with suppressed anger and suspicion. "Are you high on something you shouldn't be? You've been acting squirrely this whole time!"
"Absolutely not! Sir—uh, John! Really!" Sam felt a prickle of fear under his intense stare and quickly waved his hands in denial. "I just… got a bad feeling, you know? Jittery inside, like something bad's about to happen. Just a hunch!"
"A hunch?" John's suspicion deepened. "Listen up, rookie. Don't give me that crap. If you dare touch that stuff while on duty, and I find out, partner or not, I'll personally haul your ass in. Don't even think about getting lucky, understand?"
"Understood! I swear, I won't touch it!" Sam raised his hands, trying to look sincere. "The most I do is… maybe have a few drinks at home when I'm off duty. And my tolerance… is okay."
[Last time was an accident, Sassen deserved it anyway,] he muttered internally.
John still looked skeptical, brow furrowed.
But just as he seemed about to say more, chaos erupted.
A figure darted out from the shadows of a building on the side of the road without warning, lunging into the middle of the street like an incorporeal phantom.
"Look out!" John barely had time to yell, instinctively yanking the steering wheel and slamming on the brakes.
But the distance was too short, the speed too high.
With a sickening THUMP, the figure, clad in purple, collided hard with the front of the speeding patrol car.
It flew through the air like a discarded rag doll, tumbling before hitting the asphalt several meters away with a dull thud, then lay completely still.
The tires shrieked as the police car finally skidded to a halt in the middle of the road.
Sam's body was held fast by the seatbelt, but the force of the impact still made his vision momentarily black out, his ears ringing.
"Shit! We hit someone!" John exclaimed, a mixture of shock and anger in his voice.
He quickly unbuckled his belt.
"Sam, stay in the car, call for an ambulance immediately! Report our location and situation, pedestrian hit, condition… condition unknown!" He barked out the orders rapidly as he pushed his door open and ran towards the motionless figure lying face down on the pavement, intending to check for injuries.
As the dizziness subsided, Sam reached for the radio, but his gaze locked onto the "victim" on the ground as if drawn by a magnet.
He watched, horrified, as the person—who should have been unconscious, possibly dead—began to push themselves up from the pavement in a completely unnatural, grotesquely jerky manner…
Their limbs seemed to bend at impossible angles, accompanied by sickening crackling sounds, as if broken bones were grinding against each other inside.
Their movements were swift yet purposeful.
John, seeing the 'person' staggeringly get to their feet, froze, about to ask if they were okay, when its neck twisted at a horrifying angle.
It snapped its head up, cloudy, lifeless eyes instantly locking onto John.
A low, inhuman gurgle rattled in its throat.
It opened its mouth, something dripping from it, and lunged towards John with terrifying speed.
Sam's hand instantly drew the Glock from its holster.
[Ambulance? No, what this thing needed now was bullets!]