In any peaceful modern city, what place stockpiles the most guns?
The police station.
And not just any station—the one ahead was Boston Police Headquarters, sprawling across an entire block. Fenric had memorized its location from a city map he grabbed back at the CDC.
Now, as he crossed the blood‑streaked plaza, he saw the fight that had already taken place: bodies everywhere. Some in uniform. Most not. Spent brass carpeted the entry hall. For a while, the police had clearly held—but the zombies didn't yield. Even armed forces could be ground down.
Fenric slowed. Unlike on the street—where zombies parted around his virus‑flagged body—inside the station there might still be live humans. Cornered cops were trigger‑happy cops. Getting shot before clearing the dungeon floor would be insultingly stupid.
He moved carefully through hallways smeared with drag marks and impact sprays, following wall schematics toward Basement Weapons Storage.
No survivors encountered.
Relief out. Door open.
"This…"
He froze at the threshold.
Racks. Rows. Walls. Weapons stacked to the ceiling.
Handguns. Duty pistols. Assault rifles. Carbines. Shotguns. Precision rifles.
Crates of grenades. Blocks of C4. Flamethrowers in cradle racks. Belt‑fed heavy guns—two full Vulcan rotary cannons mounted on wheeled tripods.
Fenric grinned.
A bold idea formed in his mind—the kind of plan you only try when zombies won't touch you.
Use the police HQ as a slaughter fortress. Don't haul ammo—bring the enemy to the guns!
Without a second to waste, he got to work.
First: C4 packs. He ferried them to surrounding streets—doorways, car clusters, structural pinch points—burying charges for later remote detonation.
Next: he rolled the twin Vulcans to the front entrance and set firing arcs to rake converging streets.
Then: hauled crates of high‑explosive grenades to the roof for overhead bombardment.
He eyed the flamethrowers, considered… and left them. Fire + swarm = runaway inferno. Zombies didn't care about pain; flaming bodies would keep charging—straight back into him, the HQ, the ammo stock. High chance of self‑immolation. Pass.
As for rifles and sniper platforms? Too slow. Fenric wasn't here for precision. He needed volume kill. Headshots were for people who still worried about ammo scarcity and aggro. He had armory walls and a city full of bait.
—--
While Fenric was wiring a kill zone, most other samsara players were clinging to life.
World War Z infected locked onto healthy targets like heat‑seeking missiles. Barricades bought time—minutes at best. Once a swarm found you, it didn't stop.
Many Samsara players had retreated to "safe" strongpoints. None stayed safe long.
Rooftop – Shopping Mall Block
On that three‑story mall roof: the alliance led by Solis—the flashy D‑rank with the black blade—stared down a sea of infected. At first they'd cheered their height advantage, chopping and shooting at anything that reached the parapet.
That only drew more.
Now the streets below were a moving carpet of bodies. Tens of thousands. Maybe hundreds of thousands flowing in from feeder roads. The building's main stairwell had been barricaded—but the walls shuddered under constant impact.
A female samsara player screamed, "They're crushing the entrance! The block's giving way!"
"!!!"
Faces turned white when they heard it.
"Find anything—block it more! MOVE!" Solis shouted.
Empty rooftop. No furniture. No sandbags. Nothing to wedge.
Cracks rippled through hastily stacked debris at the stair door. Steel bent.
Solis's mind shifted gears. Evaluation scores no longer mattered. Survival did. He glanced at the others—the same people who'd eagerly joined his "reward split" alliance.
But his true thoughts?
They are Expendable. Decoys to slow the surge while he escaped.
Anyone who ground to D‑rank in the Safe Zone hadn't gotten there by being soft.