"This is an emergency message from LCPD command to all officers in the Algonquin area. The Algonquin Bridge has fallen and other bridge defences are being overrun as we speak. Fall back to Position Sierra Zulu and await further orders. The city has been overrun. I repeat. The city has been overrun."
Mounted Police Division Officer Tommy Blaine, panting slightly, heard this message just a few minutes after he fled on his mount, 'Tristian', from the Algonquin Bridge. On Albany Avenue, he paused for a moment, looking upon the smouldering ruins of Charge Island, destroyed when the highway collapsed on it when the USAF bombed it, then hearing the moans of the undead, quickly got going again. On the intersection of Pyrite Street, he began to notice that something was wrong with Tristian – he seemed to be going slower, he was swerving, and from what Tommy felt, he was unstable. Not noticing a gash on a unprotected section of thigh, Tommy shrugged it off, and rode on through empty, debris-strewn streets filled with abandoned cars, assuming that it was all just nerves.
Tommy, his mother said when he lived upstate, had a 'natural affection' for horses, being taught by his father to ride at an early age while also helping out in the family stables two hours a day. That was his inspiration to move up to Liberty City and join the LCPD in 2005, eventually being signed up to the MPD, as it was called. But never would he have known, even after all the horror films he had watched, that the apocalypse would be unleashed on Liberty City. With most of his friends either dead or missing, Tommy's only friend at that point was Tristian. And in the past few hours, that friendship had saved both of their lives.
Hearing a call for help from a nearby alleyway, Tommy dismounted Tristian, taking out his M16 but leaving his gas mask behind – he didn't believe in the whole 'airborne virus' theory, he watched too many zombie movies for him to believe it. Protected only by riot armour, alongside his usual MPD boots and helmet, with the M16 at the ready, Tommy darted into the alleyway, where he saw a band of refugees – one in a suit, one in a stolen FDLC jacket, and one in homeless clothes – hidden away in the alley, all looking reasonably frightened.
"You here to save us?" The stolen FDLC jacket man asked.
"Yeah sure, LCPD Mounted Police Division. Streets are clear for now, just get to the museum as fast as you goddamn can." Tommy replied.
"Shoudn't you be on a horse if you're MPD?"
"I work alone. Everybody else…they're done for, I gurantee it."
A cry went up from a rooftop from a man with a Southern accent, but Tommy disregarded it as he helped the three refugees out of the alley. Once they were in the clear, the man in the suit thrusted him $50.
"Take this. Not like it's worth anything, anyway – it's steal or kill out there. Stay safe for f*cks sake, you guys are our only hope." The man in the suit said.
"Your name?"
"Who gives a sh*t anymore? Just get the hell out of here before the f*cking walking dead come back."
"HEY! SOMEONE GOT A CLEAR SHOT?" The Southern accented man yelled again. He seemed familiar, but he could not put name to face until he yelled, "I'VE GOT A BULLET AIMED RIGHT FOR YOUR BALLS, B*TCH!"
Officer Herschel? What was he doing outside Alderney State?
"HERSCHEL?" Tommy yelled.
"HEY, KEEP IT DOWN, YOU'LL GET FOUND!" Herschel replied.
"SAYS YOU, YELLING AROUND UP THERE!"
He never spoke again, as a loud single sniper rifle shot came from that rooftop. And knowing there may be a horde or something very strong approaching, Tommy knew he had to move.
Firstly though, he had to go and scout the area. While more gunfire came from up above, Tommy slowly creeped up to the end of an alleyway leading out onto the darkening, empty Albany Avenue. He hesitated to look, in case he angered…something, and began to long to be back with what remained of the MPD. He heard on his low-volume radio that the MPD, ESU and NOOSE squads had all teamed up to form some medieval-like army to try to end the city's current disaster, armed to the teeth with all kinds of weapons and very well protected, a far contrast from his current state. And then on that thought, he began to worry for Tristian. Down there, the constant rattling of gunfire from Herschel and all other kinds of noises and sights – he knew he'd be scared, and Tommy was scared for him.
And so, he first thrust his M16 around the corner. No response, no running, no snarling, no nothing, just gunshots, and Herschel eventually reloading his rifle. In the short break he had during the reload, Tommy poked his head around the corner and saw the rear of Tristian, only just noticing the huge gash on his thigh, and from what he saw, he seemed to be quivering, yet rather violently throwing his tail around. Having worked with him for nearly two years, he never saw Tristian do that, and piecing that together with the gash, he assumed the worst.
"No." He said, "No, no, no, no, no, no, no…" Tommy panicked, backing away into the alleyway.
Whatever had happened to Tristian, Tommy thought, he didn't want to resort to shooting him, not because it would attract the horde, but because his morals prevented him from doing so. While not a religious man, he prayed to whatever God there was that he and Tristian would make it out of this whole debacle fine, and that both of them could put Liberty City behind them for the rest of their lives. Pressing himself against the wall, he considered breaking into the Grotti dealership, and taking what he could…no, that would cause too much noise.
Hoping that nothing would see him, Tommy made the dangerous move of running back onto Albany Avenue, getting as far as the bridge over Obsidian before ducking behind the last building before the bridge, staring at the abandoned LCPD station and noticing it's hastily-erected high walls, wondering if he could outlast the apocalypse there. As he prepared to move on again, he noticed the sound of clopping hooves, and was about to come out and praise the LCPD for saving him, when he noticed that the clopping was at times, disjointed. Now shaking in fear, he didn't want to go back onto Albany Avenue, but he also didn't trust going down Bismarck Avenue, having not scouted that out. Unless he wanted to break his legs going down Obsidian Street, he was stuck.
"He must have heard me, he must have heard me..." Tommy repeated, sliding down the wall and dropping his M16 noisily, barely avoiding accidentally setting it off. The sound of hooves picked up again, this time slightly faster, yet more disjointed, and at that point, Tommy was beginning to believe his worst fears were coming true. And at that point, he just had to look – he was both terrified and concerned, hoping that the instability he felt still was just nerves. In fact, he quietly begged.
And then, after breathing in slowly, he poked his head around the corner, and in the five seconds he could see him, he saw Tristian…but he…he was beyond saving. From first perspective, his face was one steely-eyed permanent look of rage, with almost-blinded eyes whitened, but bloodshot, ears raised and alert. He still whinnied, yet in a more aggressive tone, and puffing loudly at times. The main part of Tristian's body was pockmarked with fresh, gaping bullet holes that were ultimately useless in bringing him down, and splattered, drying blood all over his bay coat. Already, small parts of flesh were missing due to Herschel's attempts to bring him down, and just before he darted back into cover, he saw Tristian bare his teeth. It was all true, and it was the sum of his (and most definitely the author's) nightmares – Tristian had been slashed at some point at the Algonquin Bridge, and had succumbed to his injuries, rising again as a zombie horse.
Horrified, Tommy ran as fast as he could away, and from there, Tristian picked up Tommy's scent. The chase was on.
With tears of terror in his eyes, Tommy sprinted onto Bismarck Avenue, and forgetting the right way to the safe zone, he turned left down to the Manganese Street-Bismarck Avenue intersection, and just as the avenue split into a median, he knew he couldn't run no more – he was exhausted, and lacked the motivation to do so. Nervously, he raised his M16 point-blank at Tristian, threatening to shoot, but knowing he could not encourage himself to do so.
"Why…did you have to do this to me?" He said under his breath, barely getting his words out before breaking down in tears once again, backing away along the median and then tripping and falling onto Kunzite Street, where the failed 'Salvation Gates' once stood, now completely devoid of life aside from Tommy and Tristian.
Firmly gripping onto the M16, he prepared himself for the stuff of nightmares – being eaten alive -, reciting what part of the Lord's Prayer he knew from back in high school. He was too young, he was going to propose to his girlfriend, and he was going to live a good life working for the LCPD in gentrified Northwood. All those hopes and dreams were out of the window now – all that faced him in the last few minutes of his life was his only friend out looking for flesh and blood. His flesh and blood.
He tried to back away as Tristian approached, even though he knew it wouldn't do anything, and begged for mercy, even though that too wouldn't do anything. He closed his eyes as he began to feel Tristian's breath swiftly approach, and then…Tommy lived no more. No amount of the virus could even revive him from the sheer amount of flesh and bone and organs ripped untimely from his body. For just eight seconds, he could feel it all, the tearing of flesh and the snapping of bone, and his shrieking yells of pain were eventually silenced when death finally came to 'save' him. And even after death, there was still no mercy, as he was pretty much stripped to the bone, with loud cracks of disjointed bones reverberating off the empty high-rises of Algonquin. And eventually, with blood smeared across his face and across Kunzite Street, Tristian left, managing to survive even up to the final battle at Acter Industrial Park, while Tommy laid dead, eyes open with terror, still managing to clutch onto his M16.
Hours later, after nobody, not even a zombie, had picked on him, a gang of four came across the body – two Serbs, a muscular man and a Puerto Rican, namely Niko and Roman Bellic, Mallorie Bardas and Brucie Kibbutz.
"Jesus Christ, what happened to him?!" Roman yelled.
Niko said nothing, but looked away as he took the M16 from his cold hands.
"He instinctively reached for the cold form of the rifle on the table in front of him, a sleek modern M16 rifle a dead mounted policeman had still been clutching when he tore it from his cold hands, even as the officer's horse, undead and covered in blood and gaping bullet holes, tore into him."