Chapter 36 — Trading Up
Several walkers below tilted their heads back, screeching up at him, rotting arms clawing helplessly at the air.
"Holy sh—" Glenn almost screamed from the opposite rooftop.
He slapped a hand over his own mouth, eyes bulging in panic.
Hank's muscles tensed. He pulled himself up with a clean, powerful motion, swung over the windowsill, and rolled into the second floor of the department.
It looked like an office — papers scattered, dried blood caked on the floor.
He dropped low immediately, drew the axe, and swept the room with sharp eyes.
Nothing moved.
No threats.
He got to the window and signaled Glenn: clear.
Glenn collapsed onto the platform in relief.
Hank began searching the second floor, taking slow, silent steps down the hallway.
The quiet was unnerving.
Every office he passed was a mess — overturned desks, bullet holes, overturned chairs — but no movement.
He found the stairwell. One glance down told him everything he needed.
The first-floor lobby was a nightmare.
Walkers — dozens of them — packed shoulder to shoulder, milling and jerking violently. The entire ground floor was practically a solid wall of the dead. No wonder the main entrance had been sealed shut.
Fine. It didn't matter.
He wasn't here to fight his way out — he was here for ammo.
A gun locker — that was the objective.
Based on standard layouts, the gun room could be located on the ground floor near the side entrance or rear lot…
But some police departments also kept a secondary gun safe on the second floor.
Hank kept searching.
Most rooms were completely empty, just streaked with blood and long dried desperation.
Until he reached the end of the corridor—
A door unlike the rest.
Heavy solid wood.
Reinforced metal frame.
A tiny bullet-resistant observation window — covered with paper from the inside.
And next to the handle, an electronic keypad lock.
The power was dead, so the keypad was useless… but the door itself was as strong as a vault.
This was it.
Even if it wasn't the main armory, it held something important.
Hank pushed gently.
The door didn't budge — the mechanical lock held firm.
"Damn it…"
He needed the key — or to break it down.
Breaking it was suicide. One loud bang and every walker downstairs would swarm the stairwell in seconds.
So: find the key.
He jogged back a few steps and began scanning both sides of the hallway, searching the higher-ranked offices — captain's room, duty officer's station, evidence administration — anywhere a key might realistically be kept.
He opened drawers quietly, rifling without disturbing anything unnecessarily.
Then — buried at the bottom of an overturned drawer — his fingers brushed cold metal.
He pulled it out.
A brass key, ornate cross-shaped.
A faded plastic strip dangled from the ring, ink just barely legible:
"Armory."
Hank grinned despite himself.
"I love you, Lady Luck."
Hank couldn't help pressing a quick kiss to the key before hurrying back to the reinforced door.
He slid the brass key into the lock.
—CLICK.
In the dead silence, the mechanical turn of the lock sounded deafening.
His heart leapt into his throat.
He froze, listening—every muscle rigid.
The walkers downstairs kept groaning, but there was no shift in their tone.
They hadn't noticed.
Hank eased the door open.
Inside was a compact storage room.
Along the wall stood several heavy gray weapon lockers—but every door hung wide open.
Completely stripped.
Empty magazines and ammo packaging littered the floor.
Not at all the fully-stocked armory he was hoping for.
Still—he searched. No point coming this far for nothing.
His stomach dropped with every useless drawer he checked.
Now and then, he found a stray 9mm round in discarded boxes.
But then—behind a half-open low cabinet in the corner—he spotted something abandoned… or forgotten.
A full black SWAT uniform, a plate carrier tactical vest, and a 72-hour assault pack.
All marked SWAT. All in good condition.
Propped beside the wall were two Mossberg M590 shotguns, along with a small box holding a dozen 12-gauge shells.
A P226 pistol sat atop the shelf, and beside it —
five full magazines loaded with 9mm rounds.
More sealed cardboard boxes in the corner were marked for 9mm and 12-gauge.
A jackpot — not in quantity, but in quality.
Hank shed his battered clothes and changed quickly into the black SWAT uniform, adjusting the surprisingly well-fitting combat boots.
He unzipped the assault pack — two smoke grenades, one stun grenade, and a tactical knife.
The knife went straight to his belt.
He loaded the pack with the P226, the spare ammo, and his empty magazines.
He paused at the mirror-like reflection on the glass door.
The man staring back wasn't a worn-out cop anymore.
He looked like a fully-equipped special operations veteran — plates, tactical gear, sidearm, shotgun ammunition, and firepower to match.
A moment ago, he was a survivor scraping by with a nearly empty pistol.
Now he carried more loaded magazines than he had since the outbreak began.
He didn't dare savor the moment.
He slung both shotguns over his shoulder and moved toward the window.
On the opposite rooftop, Glenn saw the familiar silhouette appear — and nearly collapsed with relief.
Hank opened his mouth to speak—
BOOM!!!
A deafening explosion erupted from downstairs.
The floor shook like an earthquake had hit.
Walkers roared like a tidal wave in response.
Something heavy was tearing apart.
Both men froze — blood draining from their faces.
"What—what was that?!" Glenn shrieked.
Hank leaned out and spotted the source.
The SWAT armored truck parked below — it had detonated into flames.
There must have been ammunition inside. A secondary explosion sent fire rolling across the street.
The blast and fire instantly drew every walker's focus.
They swarmed toward the armored truck like a tidal surge.
But worse — the blast had compromised the Sheriff's Department's structural integrity.
CRRK… RUMBLE—!!
Part of the first-floor side wall collapsed in a massive section.
A gaping breach yawned open.
Walkers flooded out through the hole in an unstoppable torrent —
while even more, frenzied by the heat and noise, rammed the inside of the building with renewed madness.
The entire station had become a flaming powder keg — and Hank was still on the second floor.
"Officer! Get out of there!" Glenn shouted from the rooftop, no longer even trying to be quiet.
"You get to cover — I can't get back across!" Hank snapped.
He turned toward the corridor — and heard the pounding and roars closing in from the far side.
"…Fantastic."
Every route back — every possible exit — was swallowed by the fire and the horde.
"OFFICER!!!" Glenn yelled helplessly, brandishing Lucille as if he could fight the whole world to get to him.
Hank sprinted back to the storage room.
There — on the opposite wall — another door, half blocked by a shelving rack.
He shoved the rack aside and yanked the door open.
A narrow interior corridor!
There was still a way out.
He ran at full speed, boots pounding pavement until he reached the corridor's end.
Another steel door.
This one marked EMERGENCY EXIT… but it had been chained shut from the outside.
Behind him — the sound of the dead surged closer.
He couldn't advance; he couldn't retreat.
He was trapped.
Completely.