Fenric didn’t bolt from the CDC immediately.
Even with plot knowledge and prep, if his "sick = safe" gamble failed, he’d die ugly—and probably in pieces. Better to confirm.
He searched the second floor, moving quietly until he heard wet gnawing from an archives room.
He eased closer... and stopped in the doorway.
A female nurse zombie crouched over the corpse of a heavyset middle‑aged white man—belly out, no pants. Neither of them wore anything below the waist.
Great. So that’s how the outbreak caught them.
Fine. Test subject acquired.
"CLAP!"
Fenric clapped—loud.
Snap!
The zombie’s head jerked up. She abandoned her meal and lunged, claws out, jaw wide, eyes feral.
Fenric braced, ready to shoot the instant she made contact.
She didn’t.
Half a meter away, she stalled—mouth working, throat rumbling "ho... ho..."—like she wanted to bite but couldn’t cross an invisible line.
His fist slowly unclenched.
Then he laughed.
Quiet at first. Then louder. Then wild.
"Heh... heh... haha—HAHAHAHAHA!"
Days of tension—plot planning, virus injection, Tower stakes—it all blew out of him in manic release.
The zombie roared back, frustrated, but still wouldn’t strike.
Fenric drew the Beretta, lined up the forehead, fired.
Bang.
The skull burst. She collapsed.
You killed a zombie. Mission progress: 1 / 10.
Fenric smiled.
His sickness strategy worked. Zombies recognized him as a "bad host" and wouldn’t attack—unless maybe provoked hard. Good enough.
Phase One: survival buffer — successful.
Time for Phase Two: slaughter.
He left the archives room. Down the hall, a cluster of lab‑coat zombies charged—then peeled away at the last second, splitting around him like water around a rock.
He didn’t waste bullets. Killing one at a time was pointless.
He wanted numbers.
Outside the CDC, sirens were pointless background noise. Fenric spotted a city bus half‑crashed across an intersection. Windshield cracked. Engine still whining.
He vaulted aboard, shoved the driver’s body aside, and dropped into the seat.
A1 license? Who cares. Boston traffic law had died five minutes ago.
Reverse. Align. Slam throttle.
The bus roared down the street, pancaking parked sedans, plowing through panicked traffic—and through the growing ranks of the infected.
You killed a zombie. Progress: 2 / 10.
Progress: 3 / 10.
...
Progress: 11 / 10.
Progress: 12 / 10.
Prompts stacked as bodies crunched under the wheels. The louder the engine, the more zombies converged—perfect for farming.
Fenric grinned. With risk gone, he could unleash chaos without restraint.
By the time he braked hard beside a government block, hundreds lay crushed in his wake.
"..."
He dismounted, ignoring the swarm closing in. The infected parted around him instinctively, leaving a clear corridor—as if some animal instinct rejected diseased prey.
Fenric strode straight through them toward his next objective.
A large stone sign stood ahead.
Police Department.
Phase Two wasn’t done yet.
Now came guns. Lots of guns.