Kazui's motorcycle stuck to the road effortlessly as it raced North at unbelievable speed. His house was on the Northern Hills, in a rich suburb of fully-detached houses that boasted small villa-type architecture, fitted with once turquoise pools and playgrounds for kids that would laugh and cry in the Old World. The jagged and viciously rocky hills loomed over the city of New World Pretoria with a welcoming sense of malice. Kazui took a grand liking to his house in the hills. Not for it's position, not for it's architecture, but for the memories it gave him of the Old World. Little pieces of history in the broken, dysfunctional and empty world he had been left in, and large reminders that he was a survivor.
His house was among the highest in the suburb, the entire city at its feet. The skyscrapers would claw and climb into the sky, and the rest of Pretoria would always watch in envy. Kazui wished for a day in which he could apply power to the grid for just one night, so that he could see the sky be poisoned with the beautiful industrial-esque lights as he rolled over in his bed and peered out of the large window that covered the expanse of two-third of the bedroom on the seconds floor.
He found it incredibly hard to sleep these days. There was something changing in him. Something... other.
Not the infection, not me. Immune... just like Robert.
He always felt the need to ask Robert if he ever had similar feelings and if there was some piece of fossilised Old World history that could tell him what was happening to his body and how to fix it.
Huh. He'd love that. I can already hear himself licking his lips like a hungry, feral little dog, savouring the taste of the words 'I told you so'.
His motorcycle roared onto the road that lead to his house, and outside he could see a small horde of about a half dozen of them. Some of them retained memories of his name from the Old World and would speak it, shout it and scream it in an attempt to lure him from the safe confines of his heavily fortified house. This had lead him to soundproof everything he had in his home, so that he could never hear them unless he wanted them to say his name one last time before he took the rifle from the second floor and...
Screw it, they never say my fucking name right anyway.
As always, Kazui took post about ten metres from the 7 Infected persons and proceeded to systematically make their brains fly from their skulls with a semi-automatic rifle. .308 rounds from the rifle were never enough to kill them. As Robert had said, the wound needed to be large enough that the coagulated and sickeningly thick blood could not repair it, but Kazui had found a small box of ammunition labeled '.308 Hollow-Point Expanding'. Kazui didn't know how they worked or why, and he didn't care. All he knew was that there was nothing better to make an undead head explode.
Once every body left outside his house was in pieces, Kazui remotely unlocked and manually pulled up the garage door that lead to his large underground haven. Originally, the basement of the house was intended to hold 5-6 cars, but Kazui had 'renovated' it, filling it with hoarded crates of ammunition, weapons, fuel, chemicals, and valuables, leaving space only for his black motorcycle, a generator that kept the house alive and a matte black Mustang he had fully armoured so that it no longer resembled a car. Much of the storage on the first floor resembled that of the one below, only neater and more... civilised. There were even paintings up there. Pieces of history that he loved so dearly, yet he had never been able to cover them correctly due to the weight of the dust sheets he owned.
As he began to climb the neat glass staircase to the first floor, there was a deafening crash upstairs, the sound of bitter glass shattering violently. Too fast and instant for it to be an Infected. A scavenger, perhaps? Interesting, I had gotten bored of Robert. Whoever this bastard is, they've chosen the wrong fucking house.
Dropping his pack of weapons and his overcoat to the floor gently, Kazui produced a small firearm, a Berretta 92, from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. Never a one for fashion, he had just seen Robert wear them all the time and admired the number of pockets they harboured.
Kazui cautiously rose up the stairs and used his firearm to slowly and silently push the ajar door to the house wider. He heard shuffling, fast movement and the unmistakable sound of small gasps in awe of his collection. He edged to the corner of the wall to his living room, now a temporary storage room for even more ammunition, weapons and artwork. He peeked round the corner and instantly retracted. There was a dark, slim figure of a woman overlooking his things, the clothes on her too tight for her to be undead. She seemed to be stealing from him nonchalantly, and she was making a reasonable deal of noise in the process. She had been admiring his smaller and less impressive weapon stock with widened eyes for quite some time.
Why, thank you very much, you stupid bitch.
Kazui calmly wrapped his fingers about the grip of the pistol and extended his index to meet the trigger. He slowly pulled back the hammer and rushed the corner with speed, but silence. He walked up to the girl and placed the cool metal barrel of the gun against her clothed neck, and he could almost hear her hairs stand on end.
"Don't you dare move. Tell me who you are, and why you broke a fucking window like an idiot to let me know you were stealing."