The wind on the maintenance walkway was brutal. At a height of eighty meters, with no protection from buildings or cars, the ocean gusts slammed into Leon's chest like punches.
He pressed his back against the cold concrete side of the bridge, sidestepping along it. Above his head, the chaos on the main roadway was a muffled roar of twisted metal, human screams, and the inhuman roars of the infected. Every so often, a body or a piece of bumper would sail over the guardrail and plummet toward the sea.
Leon looked down for a brief second.
The sea was rough, gray, and covered in white foam from the week of storms. Even so, the sight gave him a fresh burst of resolve. It was vast, open, and, most importantly, far from the madness on solid ground. If he reached the boat, he'd be safe. No one would follow him there.
"Focus," he murmured, pulling his gaze from the water. "Current objective is to get off the bridge and reach the marina."
The metal grate walkway vibrated under his boots with every step. The path was narrow, made for only one technician at a time. Ahead of him, the bridge structure descended in a gentle arc to the entrance of the Porto Prisma island.
About two kilometers to go.
He moved quickly, his left hand gripping the rusty handrail and his right squeezing the crowbar. The Glock was in its holster; in that narrow corridor, with limited ammo, close-quarters combat was the logical choice.
He had covered about five hundred meters when danger arrived. Not from behind, but from above.
A metallic crash sounded above him, followed by the shattering of glass. A body was hurled over the guardrail, landing heavily on the grate of the walkway just three meters ahead of Leon.
The metal structure groaned from the impact, swaying violently with the extra weight. Leon had to crouch and hold the handrail tight to keep from being thrown off.
The body moved.
It was a man in a delivery uniform. Or what was left of it. One arm was broken at a ninety-degree angle, the exposed bone tearing through the orange fabric. His head was twisted to the side, the sudden baldness revealing a gray, pulsating scalp under the harsh sun.
The creature hissed, rising on shaky legs and completely ignoring the severity of its injury. As soon as its eyes focused on Leon, the hiss turned into a snarl. It blocked the only path forward.
On that walkway, only sixty centimeters wide and suspended over the sea, retreating was impossible and dodging was suicide. It was kill or fall.
"Come on," Leon said coldly, planting his feet and raising the crowbar.
The infected charged, running awkwardly, the black veins on its neck swelling. It stretched out its good arm to try and grab Leon's jacket.
Leon didn't back up. He waited until the last second, when the smell of rotten flesh hit his nostrils.
With a short, brutal motion, he pivoted his hips and brought the crowbar down.
CRAAAACK!
The sound of breaking bone was dry and loud, cutting over the howl of the wind. The curved tip of the tool hit the creature's temple, caving in the fragile skull.
The infected "shut off" instantly. Its body listed to the side, slipped through the low railing of the walkway, and plunged toward the water below.
Leon watched it fall. Seconds later, the translucent blue window appeared floating in the air where the monster had been.
[Target Eliminated] [Energy Collected: +1] [Initialization Progress: 4/10]
Leon narrowed his eyes.
"Four out of ten," he memorized. "Need six more to see what happens."
There was no celebration, just mathematics. He wiped the black blood from the crowbar onto his pants and started walking again.
Thirty tense minutes of walking later, the walkway ended. He was at the base of the bridge, where the concrete structure met the solid ground of the island.
He crouched behind a support pillar, observing the entrance to Porto Prisma.
The scene was hell on earth.
The main avenue was blocked by a barricade of burning cars. The glass-carbon facades of the luxury buildings reflected the fire and the sunlight. But the real problem was the hordes.
Hundreds of infected roamed the entrance plaza. They seemed incredibly active under the direct sunlight, moving with a frenetic energy, attacking each other or chasing after unlucky survivors. Their speed was terrifying.
Looking to the right, he could see the masts of boats in the Imperial Marina. They were close, only about eight hundred meters away if he followed the coastline.
The problem was the route.
To get there, he would have to cross the waterfront promenade: a wide walking path, completely open and with no cover. Under the direct light, the place had become an open-air slaughterhouse. It was infested. The creatures weren't just walking; they were running frenetically back and forth. Leon watched with dark irony; it seemed the long-awaited sunlight was acting like an adrenaline shot for them. He realized immediately that trying to cross that space would be suicide.
"If I go by the promenade, I'll be lunch before I'm halfway there," he analyzed, watching a group of five infected tearing apart a tourist near a kiosk. "Too much exposure. A huge risk."
His eyes scanned the environment for alternatives until they landed on a half-destroyed tourist sign near the base of the bridge: "Undergallery - Access to Seaside Mall and Marina."
It was a surface-level metro entrance and pedestrian passage that cut underneath the plaza. Dark. Damp.
Leon smiled without humor.
"No sun down there," he thought. "If light activates the virus, maybe in the dark they're slower. Or at least, easier to kill stealthily."
Besides, it was a confined environment. Perfect for using the crowbar and saving bullets. Perfect for getting the six kills he still needed to activate whatever that system was.
He adjusted his backpack, gripped the iron tool tightly, and ran toward the dark entrance of the gallery, leaving the sun behind.