The tarmac of the Japanese airport was a labyrinth of stalled planes and rising shadows. The mistake was crushing—they were thousands of miles off course, and the fuel gauges in both the aircraft and the ZDT were beginning to dip dangerously low.
"First thing we do," Sugar growled, "is break that phone. If we ask it for Indonesia again, we'll end up in the Arctic Circle."
"Every airport has a control room," Gwen said, her voice sharp with practical medical logic. "They have physical radar maps. Hard copies that don't need a satellite or a battery. We find the tower, we find our way home."
The Control Room Raid
Richard, Sugar, and Orion vaulted from the truck, their boots hitting the asphalt in a synchronized rhythm. Behind them, Gwen, Walter, and Alfred manned the ZDT's mounted guns, providing a rhythmic, thundering cover fire that kept the Japanese horde at bay.
Inside the control tower, the air was stale. Richard kicked open the door to the observation deck, his shotgun leveled. They found what they needed—a massive, wall-mounted aeronautical chart of the Pacific. Richard ripped it from the pins, but as they turned to leave, the sound of glass shattering echoed from the floor below.
"They're inside!" Orion shouted.
The retreat was a blur of smoke and lead. Gwen threw a smoke bomb into the stairwell, the thick white cloud masking their exit. They scrambled toward the open door of the ZDT, the engine already roaring.
"Orion! Take my hand!!" Richard screamed, reaching out from the moving truck.
But the soldier's boot slipped on a patch of oil. In a heartbeat, three grey figures lunged from the smoke, their fingers locking onto Orion's tactical vest.
"It's too late!!" Orion roared, his face a mask of grim acceptance. "This is my end! You go... rescue the world!!"
The door slammed shut. The last thing the Z-Hunters saw through the armored glass was Orion disappearing into the white haze, his rifle still barking until the sound was swallowed by the moans.
The Crash into Singapore
The flight from Japan was a somber, silent affair. The fuel leak they'd ignored in the chaos finally took its toll. Over the South China Sea, the engines began to cough and sputter.
"We're going down!" Walter yelled, fighting the controls.
The plane plummeted, skipping across a wide expanse of grassland like a stone on a pond before grinding to a halt in a cloud of dirt and sparks. When the dust settled, they crawled out of the wreckage.
"The petrol's out," Walter gasped, checking the fuselage. "But the ZDT is intact. James, get the Bull out of the cargo bay."
James quickly rolled the truck out, but before boarding, he paused. He attached a small, blinking device to the tail of the crashed plane.
"What's that?" Gwen asked.
"An LTL—Location Tracker and Locator," James said, handing a receiver to Sugar. "I built it myself. It can map a country and track our path back to this spot. We'll need the plane later if we ever find more fuel."
Alfred checked the digital radar. "We've landed in Singapore, specifically the Deer Grassland. We need to head toward the city center."
The Hunger on HC Road
They drove through the silent, empty highways of Singapore. For forty kilometers, there wasn't a single sign of life—not even a bird. The silence was more unnerving than the screams of Sydney.
"I can't take it anymore," James groaned, his stomach let out a loud, hollow protest. "We haven't eaten a real meal since Australia."
"Where are we?" Sugar asked.
"HC Road," Richard replied.
James's eyes lit up. "Wait! There's a world-famous restaurant here: Hainanese Chicken Rice. It's the national dish! We have to stop."
"Are you insane?" Richard snapped. "We're in a zombie apocalypse!"
"Everyone's hungry, Richard," Gwen countered. "A hungry team is a dead team."
They pulled up to a dimly lit restaurant. The interior was a graveyard of overturned chairs and lingering spices. While Alfred and James obsessed over the menu, Richard moved to the industrial freezers.
"Listen to this," James whispered to Alfred, acting like a food critic. "The chicken is poached in ginger and garlic... the rice is oily and fragrant... and the chili sauce? Pure harmony."
"I found it!" Richard shouted, pulling several frozen parcels from the back. "James, help me heat this. Alfred, watch the door."
Suddenly, a massive rat dropped from the ceiling, landing squarely on Alfred's face. Panicked, the soldier began firing his handgun wildly.
"Sorry! Sorry!" Alfred yelled as the rat squeaked and bolted.
"Let's just take the food and get back to the ZDT," James said, clutching a steaming parcel of chicken rice like it was gold. "Before Alfred shoots the stove and blows us all to Malaysia!"
As they stepped back into the sunlight, the ground beneath their boots began to tremble. From the end of HC Road, a low, rhythmic thundering began to grow.
"Alfred," Gwen's voice crackled over the walkie-talkie. "I think the 'customers' heard your gunshots. And they're coming for lunch."