Ethan didn't even have time to see who made that high-pitched, glass-shattering scream that tore through the night air.
His body moved on instinct—the kind of reflexes that had been drilled into him through years of training and now amplified by the System's enhancements. He dropped flat to the ground, feeling the rough concrete scrape against his jacket. A roll across the grass strip—momentum carrying him forward—and he sprang to his feet in one fluid motion.
His enhanced strength sent him vaulting over a metal fence in a single bound. The fence had to be at least six feet tall, but his legs powered through the jump effortlessly. He cleared it with room to spare, landing in a crouch on the other side.
"Help me… please!"
The faint voice trembled through the night air, weak and desperate. Female. Young, by the sound of it.
Ethan ignored it completely.
It sounded like a woman—probably civilian, untrained, panicking. But that wasn't his problem. In another time, in another world, maybe he would've stopped to check. Maybe he would've even tried to play hero, to save the damsel in distress like some character from the action movies he used to watch during slow shifts at the warehouse.
But not now. Not when Emily was still trapped at O'Hare Airport, surrounded by hundreds—maybe thousands—of those things. Not when every second he wasted here was a second she might not have.
He landed in what looked like a small public park, an open patch of grass dotted with weathered wooden benches and rusted playground equipment. A swing set creaked in the night breeze, moving back and forth like a ghost was playing on it. The slides and monkey bars cast long, twisted shadows under the pale moonlight.
There weren't many zombies here, which was good. Most of them seemed to congregate near buildings, near the places where people had been when the outbreak started. Open spaces like this were relatively clear.
Ethan stuck close to the metal railing that bordered the park, moving quick and silent. His boots made barely any sound against the grass. Every sense was heightened, alert for danger. His grip on the war axe never loosened.
Then—
"Help! Somebody! Please!"
The cry came again. Closer this time. Much closer. Like a ghost that refused to be left behind, haunting his footsteps.
"Goddammit…" Ethan hissed under his breath, his jaw clenching hard enough to hurt.
He sped up, trying to lose her—whoever she was—but the park's maze of picnic tables, fences, and decorative hedges slowed him down. The layout was designed for families and weekend barbecues, not tactical movement through a zombie apocalypse.
Worse, the noise had drawn attention.
From the shadows beneath the trees, from behind the public restrooms, from the parking lot beyond—more than a dozen zombies began closing in. Their slow, aimless groans transformed into something more focused, more frantic. They'd caught the scent of living flesh.
"Shit. You've gotta be kidding me."
Ethan's knuckles whitened around the axe handle. His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. "Should've shut her up when I had the chance."
He could try to break through the encirclement, use his enhanced speed to slip past them. But the park's layout worked against him. Too many obstacles. Too many angles of approach.
And that woman was still screaming somewhere behind him, drawing more of them with every breath.
There was no time to run. The undead were already surrounding him, forming a loose circle that tightened with every shuffling step. Gray hands reached out, mouths hanging open to reveal blackened teeth and dried blood.
Ethan took a deep breath, feeling his heartbeat slow to a steady rhythm. He shifted his stance—feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, weight distributed evenly. The opening stance of Bājíquán, modified for weapon work.
Then he charged.
Steel flashed in the moonlight like liquid silver.
The first zombie—an older man in a torn business suit—never saw the strike coming. The war axe tore through his neck, separating head from shoulders with a wet crunch. The body stumbled forward two more steps before collapsing.
Ethan was already moving, flowing into the next attack. A woman in a blood-soaked waitress uniform reached for him. He stepped inside her guard, used his free hand to redirect her grasping arms, and brought the axe around in a tight horizontal arc. The blade bit deep into her skull, splitting it like overripe fruit.
The System's cold, mechanical voice chimed in his mind with every kill:
[Kill: Level-1 Zombie. +1 Point.]
[Kill: Level-1 Zombie. +1 Point.]
A teenager in a basketball jersey lunged from his left. Ethan pivoted, using the momentum of his previous strike to generate power for the next. The hammer side of the axe—the spike he'd gained through the enhancement—caught the zombie under the chin, driving upward through soft tissue and into the brain cavity.
[Kill: Level-1 Zombie. +1 Point.]
Three more shambled toward him in a rough line. No coordination, no strategy—just blind hunger driving them forward. Ethan took two quick steps, building momentum, and swept the axe in a wide horizontal slash. The enhanced blade passed through all three necks in a single stroke, decapitating them simultaneously.
[Kill: Level-1 Zombie. +1 Point.]
[Kill: Level-1 Zombie. +1 Point.]
[Kill: Level-1 Zombie. +1 Point.]
The remaining zombies pressed in, drawn by the scent of fresh blood and the sound of combat. Ethan didn't give them the chance to surround him. He kept moving, kept flowing from one strike to the next, never staying in one place long enough to become a target.
A child zombie—couldn't have been more than ten years old when it turned—crawled toward him on all fours. Ethan's expression didn't change. Hesitation got you killed. Mercy got you infected. He brought the axe down in a clean vertical chop.
[Kill: Level-1 Zombie. +1 Point.]