The shattered glass storefront of the abandoned electronics shop offered just enough cover for Ethan's purposes.
From where he crouched behind a toppled display rack—its shelves still holding dusty laptop boxes and tangled charging cables—Ethan could see everything with perfect clarity.
The broken streetlights flickering intermittently, casting the world in alternating shadow and sickly yellow light. The wrecked cars scattered across Century Boulevard like a child's discarded toys, their windows smashed, their doors hanging open, their airbags deployed and deflating. The smoldering remains of a gas station across the avenue, still sending thin columns of black smoke into the darkening sky where someone had probably crashed into the pumps during the initial panic.
And most importantly, he could see the two scavengers making their approach toward the dead police officer.
A flickering billboard advertising some long-forgotten product—a smiling family enjoying soft drinks in happier times—and a toppled delivery truck created a perfect blind spot that hid his silhouette from anyone looking in his direction.
Perfect positioning, Ethan thought with cold satisfaction. They have no idea I'm here.
The two men were moving along the opposite sidewalk now, their movements cautious but tinged with the desperation of people who'd seen too much death in too short a time. They kept low, darting between vehicles, constantly checking over their shoulders for threats.
But they were only looking for threats behind them.
They hadn't thought to check if anyone was watching from the front.
Amateur mistake.
They haven't seen me, Ethan confirmed, watching them progress. Good.
He pressed lower behind the toppled display rack, his body going perfectly still. Years of street fights had taught him how to control his breathing, how to make himself seem smaller, how to wait with the patience of a predator.
When the two scavengers paused behind a minivan about thirty feet from the dead officer, Ethan used the opportunity to move.
He crept along the line of abandoned cars on his side of the street, using them as cover, moving from vehicle to vehicle with practiced silence. Each step was carefully placed to avoid broken glass, debris, or anything that might make noise.
The stench in the air was overwhelming—blood and gasoline mixed with the sweet-sick smell of decay and the acrid bite of burning rubber from somewhere nearby. It made his eyes water and his stomach turn, but he'd grown somewhat used to it over the past hour.
This is what hell smells like, he thought grimly.
When he peeked through a gap between two vehicles—a crashed sedan and an overturned SUV—he caught a clearer glimpse of what the two men were heading for.
A dead police officer, sprawled beside a red sedan that had apparently crashed into a light pole. The officer lay face-down on the pavement, one arm outstretched, the other bent at an unnatural angle beneath his body. A dark pool of blood had spread beneath him, already congealing in the summer heat.
And there, still secured in its holster on the officer's duty belt, was exactly what Ethan had hoped to see.
A service pistol.
"Bingo," Ethan muttered under his breath, his eyes fixed on the weapon. "So that's what they're after."
The officer's badge glinted faintly in the dim, flickering streetlight—a small piece of metal that represented law and order in a world where such concepts no longer applied. His radio was still clipped to his shoulder, though it emitted no sound. Either the batteries had died, or the emergency frequencies had gone silent.
Probably the latter.
"See, I told you," one of the scavengers whispered hoarsely, his voice carrying across the quiet street with surprising clarity.
The man had a Southern accent—Tennessee or maybe Kentucky—and sounded young, probably mid-twenties. His voice trembled slightly, betraying fear despite his attempts to sound confident.
"The cop's got a gun. Poor bastard didn't even get the chance to fire."
The other man—older, heavier, possibly related given the similar features—grinned widely, showing teeth that gleamed in the streetlight.
"Hell yeah," he said, his voice thick with excitement and greed. "Once we get that piece, we'll be kings in this apocalypse. Nobody's gonna mess with us. We can take whatever we want, go wherever we want. We'll be untouchable!"
Kings, Ethan thought, rolling his eyes behind his position. You won't live five minutes making that much noise, you idiots.
But he said nothing, remaining perfectly still, watching and waiting as they closed the distance to the dead officer.
The two scavengers moved quickly once they reached the body, abandoning their earlier caution in favor of speed. They dropped to their knees beside the corpse, their hands immediately going to work.
The younger one—the one with the Southern accent—rifled through the officer's vest pockets, pulling out a flashlight, handcuff keys, spare zip ties. Useful items, but not what they were really after.
The older brother went straight for the gun.
His thick fingers fumbled with the holster's retention strap, cursing under his breath as it refused to release immediately. These things were designed to prevent exactly this kind of theft—requiring a specific motion to unlock the weapon.
But eventually, with enough force and determination, he managed to wrench it free.
Within seconds, they'd found what they wanted.
A black Glock 17, the standard-issue service weapon for many police departments. The older brother held it up to the flickering streetlight, checking it over with the clumsy enthusiasm of someone who'd seen guns in movies but had limited real experience.
The slide was locked back, indicating the magazine was either empty or nearly so.
He fumbled with the magazine release, dropping the mag into his palm. His eyes widened with delight.
"Half-loaded!" he announced to his brother, his voice too loud for the circumstances. "Still got rounds in it!"
The younger one had found the officer's baton—a simple metal telescoping baton, nothing fancy but effective in the right hands. He extended it with a sharp snap of his wrist, grinning at the weight of it.
They were practically shaking with excitement now, their earlier caution completely abandoned in favor of celebrating their find.
The taller man—the older brother—held the gun like a trophy, pointing it at the sky like he'd just won some kind of prize.
"Man, we're untouchable now!" he crowed, his voice echoing down the empty street. "No one's gonna mess with us! Not the dead ones, not other survivors—no one! We're gonna survive this thing!"
You're going to get yourself killed, Ethan thought coldly, already moving.
That overconfident declaration was the last thing the man said before a burst of static filled the air.
BZZZT!
The sound was sharp and electric, followed immediately by the scent of ozone.
A stun baton—the one Ethan had picked up from the sporting goods store earlier, fully charged and ready—jabbed directly into the older brother's exposed neck.
Fifty thousand volts coursed through the man's nervous system, causing every muscle in his body to contract simultaneously. His back arched, his mouth opened in a soundless scream, his eyes rolled back in his head.
The gun clattered from his nerveless fingers.
Before the younger brother could react—before he could even process what was happening—Ethan had already pivoted and driven the stun baton into his neck as well.
BZZZT!
Both men convulsed violently, their bodies jerking like puppets with cut strings, and then they hit the concrete with matching dull thuds.
Thump. Thump.
Ethan stood over them, breathing steadily and evenly, his heart rate barely elevated despite the adrenaline coursing through his system. The faint blue glow from his stun baton faded as he released the trigger, leaving only the flickering streetlight to illuminate the scene.
"Idiots," he said quietly, his voice devoid of emotion.
He knelt down and pried the Glock 17 from the older brother's limp hand, his movements efficient and practiced. The weapon was heavier than he'd expected—about two pounds fully loaded—and warm from being held.
Ethan checked the chamber with practiced motions, pulling back the slide just far enough to confirm there was a round loaded.
Four rounds, he counted mentally after ejecting the magazine and checking its contents. Not much, but enough to make a difference.
Four rounds wouldn't last long in a prolonged fight, but they could be the difference between life and death in critical moments.
He turned his attention back to the dead police officer, quickly searching the duty belt with efficient, clinical movements. His fingers found what he was looking for almost immediately.
A couple of spare magazines secured in leather pouches on the belt.
Ethan pulled them free and checked their weight. Both were fully loaded—seventeen rounds each in standard Glock 17 magazines. That gave him fourteen more rounds plus the four already in the gun.
Thirty-five rounds total.
The officer never fired a shot before being torn apart, Ethan realized, looking at the body more carefully now. The holster retention strap had still been secured when the scavengers found it. The safety on the Glock was still engaged.
Whatever had killed this cop—zombies, presumably—had done it so fast he hadn't even had time to draw his weapon.
Poor bastard, Ethan thought without much sympathy. But your bad luck is my good luck.
"Guess your bad luck's my good luck," he murmured aloud, slipping the spare magazines into his backpack alongside his other supplies.
The weight felt good. Reassuring. A loaded firearm changed everything in a survival situation.
But Ethan wasn't finished yet.
He turned back to the two unconscious scavengers sprawled on the pavement. They were still alive—he could see their chests rising and falling with shallow breaths. The stun baton had incapacitated them but hadn't done any permanent damage.
They'll be useful too, Ethan thought, an idea forming in his mind.
He needed a distraction to get past the zombie horde blocking Century Boulevard. These two idiots had just volunteered for the job—they just didn't know it yet.
Ethan looked around quickly, scanning for materials. He spotted an abandoned clothing store a few doors down, its front window smashed, merchandise scattered across the sidewalk.
He jogged over and grabbed a couple of T-shirts from the pile of looted goods, tearing them into strips with his hands. The fabric ripped easily, the cheap cotton practically falling apart.
Returning to the unconscious men, Ethan stuffed the cloth strips into their mouths—not enough to suffocate them, but enough to muffle any sounds they might make when they woke up.
Then, with a sharp jab from the gun's textured grip handle, he struck each man on the shoulder—hard enough to shock them awake, not hard enough to break bone.
"Mmmph—! Ugh!"
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