It felt like an eternity, sawing away at his bonds with the chip of concrete. The jagged edges bit into his fingers almost as much as they did the rope, but he persevered.
And then suddenly, he was free. He wriggled his arms out from under him and took a good look at his hands. Or, rather, not so good. Sure enough, his wrists were badly chafed, and the concrete chip had left small lacerations across his palms and fingers. His head throbbed, and he reflexively pressed his hand to his forehead and almost instantly withdrawing it with a hiss at the pressure on the wounds, but not before accidentally smearing blood all over his brow.
Cursing under his breath, he managed to squirm out of his shirt and began to rip it into rough estimates of strips. He wrapped the torn cloth around his hands, using his teeth to help tie off the ends into knots. Experimentally, he flexed his hands. They still hurt, but they were more protected now. With a grunt, he sat up, doubling over to reach the ropes tying his ankles to the chair. After a few more minutes of fumbling, he managed to untie them, and he rolled away from the chair with a groan.
He lay on his stomach for a moment, the side of his face pressed against the cool concrete. It felt good against his aching head. But his now-bare chest was starting to get cold, so he heaved himself to his feet and looked around for his glasses. They were a few feet away from where the chair had fallen, knocked off his face when he'd hit the ground. When he bent over to pick them up, he noticed something else lying nearby. He grabbed that as well, slid his glasses onto his face, and smiled.
A new spring in his step, he crossed to the door and gave two sharp knocks. He stepped back and hefted the electric baton Minion One had dropped and forgotten. When there didn't seem to be an immediate response, he cupped his free hand to his mouth and hollered at the top of his lungs, "Your prisoner is escaping!"
He heard stomping footsteps coming down the stairs, and he stepped to the side of the doorway.
Grumbling to himself, Minion Two slammed the door open and stormed inside. It took him a moment to register that the chair no longer held a captive, and by then, it was too late. Good Cop stepped up behind him and brought the baton down with a crack, and the minion crumpled to the floor.
Good Cop twirled the baton with satisfaction. It had a nice weight to it. He'd have to hang onto this.
He slipped out the door and crept up the stairs, sticking close to the wall. The next thing he had to do was figure out just how many guards there were. He peered out of the stairwell – off to his left, there was a kitchen with its table half-visible. Minion One was sitting at the part he could see, her uniform jacket off and a thick bandage around her arm. Her face was pale and drawn, and she was nursing at a bottle of beer. Someone across from her, out of sight, was talking.
"-stuck babysitting," he was saying. "This guy's a fucking asshole. I can't wait until we get to put a bullet in his brain. I'll let you do the honors."
But Minion One wasn't listening anymore. She glanced in the direction of the stairwell, and Good Cop ducked back. "Shouldn't Ted be back by now?" she asked.
"Maybe he's just giving the cop a few good kicks," said Minion Three, but he sounded doubtful.
"Go check," said Minion One, and Good Cop heard the scraping of a chair being pushed away from the table. He tensed, readying himself as footsteps approached. Minion Three stepped into the entrance of the stairwell, and his eyes widened when he saw Good Cop there, waiting for him. Before the minion could react, Good Cop grabbed him by the front of the shirt and sidestepped as he yanked him into the stairwell. Minion Three tripped past Good Cop, stumbled on the stairs, and went tumbling. He landed at the bottom of the flight with a thud and didn't get up.
The sound alerted Minion One, and Good Cop heard her get up. As soon as she sounded close, he jumped out of the stairwell and swung the baton at head-level. It caught her on the temple, and she fell sideways against the wall, sliding to the floor. Good Cop bent over and undid her weapons belt, clipping it around his own waist. He checked its contents. A gun with a full clip, a hunting knife, and a holster for the baton. Perfect. He put the baton away and drew the gun. Keeping an eye out for more guards, he made his way down the hall, away from the kitchen, and found himself in a living room. There was a coffee table, a couch, and a couple of armchairs. He walked over to the window and looked out.
Beyond was an abandoned, half destroyed city. Was he in the aftermath of a war zone? Frowning, he decided that he needed to get a better look, maybe from somewhere higher up. There was a fairly intact three-story apartment building across the street, so he left the house and headed for it. Climbing the stairs left him out of breath, and he was beginning to feel light-headed.
Once he was on the roof, he scanned his surroundings, and realized with a jolt that he did know this place. It was the Northeast Projects. He could even see the East Wall from here. Something caught his eye, something that stood out against the black of the metal wall. A yellow dot. He squinted, but it was too far away to tell what it was.
Then he noticed movement, just above the rooftops. It was a speck from here, but it seemed to be floating from roof to roof. Could it be… Benny?
Something behind him clattered, and he turned. A blue dog-like creature with long claws and a gaping maw was pulling itself up onto the roof.
Hound.
Good Cop brought up his gun and fired once, twice. The first round hit it in the shoulder, and the second hit it in the throat. It let out a gurgling scream and fell back. He heard the crunch as it collided with the pavement below.
But the gunfire had drawn attention. More Hounds were beginning to emerge from surrounding buildings, a horrifying medley of mutated creatures with plenty of claws and fangs to go around. He looked over his shoulder at the possibly-Benny speck, and hoped that he'd heard the shots, too. Hoped that help was on the way.
Holding the gun in his right hand, he drew the knife with his left and settled into a fighting stance.
