Sosuke Kitahara held his breath as he stepped into the factory. Behind a row of machinery, Fujishima was signaling frantically, while beside him, Tsumura was mopping sweat from his brow with his sleeve, his face pale.
A grotesque noise echoed from the stairwell wet, squelching, as though someone were noisily slurping the flesh of a ripe kiwi. In the silence of the factory, it was impossibly loud.
Kitahara's scalp prickled. For someone who carried two lifetimes' worth of memory, there was only one explanation. Something was feeding not on flesh, but on the rarest thing zombies craved human brains.
Behind the bars of an iron cage, Hayato Hayama sat frozen. His body stiff, his eyes darted toward the sound. He should have locked himself in tight, but terror stripped him of reason. His last scraps of courage were gone.
He wanted to run.
Punishment, scorn anything was better than being devoured alive.
Then.
Swish!
A severed head, still dripping hot blood, tumbled across the floor and rolled at Hayama's feet. The eyes bulged wide in disbelief, the mouth frozen mid-scream. The body, headless, still staggered forward two steps before collapsing with a wet thud. Arterial spray fountained from the stump of its neck, splattering crimson across the face of a man who had just entered with Tsumura.
Everyone but Kitahara went rigid. Even the man painted in blood stood stunned, unable to comprehend what had just happened. They had all seen it one flash of black shadow, and Hayama's head was gone.
"Ahhh!"
At last, the blood-soaked man shrieked, high-pitched, almost inhuman sharper and more terrified than any woman's scream. The raw panic in his voice infected the others.
From the apartments outside came a chorus of alarmed voices. Then, a shout:
"Zombies! Run! Run!"
The settlement exploded into chaos.
"Damn it!"
Kitahara cursed. His eyes tracked the blur of movement whatever it was, it had already scrambled up the factory wall and toward the apartment blocks.
Panic spread like fire. Residents shrieked, pushing and clawing to escape. The narrow stairwells became choke points, bodies crushing against one another. The more they pushed, the more chaos reigned. Terror grew louder than reason.
Takashi Hiromi's furious shouting for order went ignored. Even she was shoved helplessly along with the tide, screaming as she stumbled down the steps.
And then came more horror within the surging crowd, several headless corpses appeared, blood spraying across the stairwell. The sight shattered what little composure remained.
The young shoved aside the elderly, fists and boots flying, desperate to place human shields between themselves and the unseen monster. They knew it was futile the creature would eat its fill and come for them next. But panic left no room for compassion. Even if death was inevitable, they wanted to be the last to die.
Bang!
A gunshot cracked like thunder, silencing the madness. Chunks of plaster rained down from the ceiling. All eyes turned to the lobby, where three women stood each holding a smoking firearm.
Haruno Yukinoshita. Yukino Yukinoshita. Utaha Kasumigaoka.
The three glared coldly at the mob, guns still raised.
"Anyone who doesn't want to die, shut up and calm down. Leave that thing to me."
Sosuke Kitahara's voice cut through the silence as he rushed in, blade in hand. His brows furrowed into a hard 川-shape.
Whether it was the women's gunfire or his words, the mob finally stopped surging. Trembling, they began to move in an orderly retreat, leaving the floor open.
In the lobby, no one dared step outside into the darkness. Few had weapons, and no one wanted to draw the creature's attention.
"Fujishima," Kitahara said, voice like steel. "I'll need your help."
Fujishima blinked, startled. "What do you want me to do?"
"When I fight it, take everyone and run. But listen carefully don't leave until I've engaged it. If you break too soon, this entire base is finished."
Kitahara's eyes flicked toward the shadows above.
Fujishima instinctively followed his gaze. At first he saw nothing but blackness. Then two scarlet points glowed in the dark, like tiny lamps near the ceiling. They blinked, slowly, unnaturally.
Fujishima swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing. His voice was hoarse. "Kitahara, I understand. I'll keep them in line."
"Want us to help?" Haruno asked, gripping her submachine gun tight.
Kitahara shook his head. "This time, you can't. Stay alive. If you have to… empty every bullet."
Utaha bit her lip. Yukino gave a firm nod, hand tight on her pistol.
Kitahara did not waste time with reassurances. Raising his katana, he strode forward, the breathing method activating on its own. He slipped his flashlight from his belt, clicked it on, and aimed the beam.
The light sliced through the gloom.
Gasps filled the hall.
Clinging to the ceiling was a monster the size of a grown man, its entire body covered in coarse black hair. Its legs bent like a frog's, suctioned tight against the concrete above. Its crimson eyes glowed in the beam, locking unblinking on the crowd below.
And in its clawed hands, it cradled a severed human head, blood dripping steadily from its jaw onto the floor with a soft, chilling drip, drip, drip.
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