When it came to tying up wild boar, Sam considered himself half an expert. Right now, he was admiring the "human-shaped boar" before him—stripped naked and trussed up tightly—with a somewhat professional, appraising gaze.
"Ow… owwwww!" The Chief let out a pig-like squeal. Indeed, the boars Sam usually tied up had already been put down by a gunshot; they certainly wouldn't be squealing in pain like this one.
"No choice. Only found some rough nylon ropes in this damn apartment, had to tie several dead knots just to make them long enough." Sam exhaled a breath, then, as if lifting a supermarket shopping bag, easily picked up the Chief, who was red all over from the tight nylon ropes and constantly squirming. He noticed that ever since his "jump" from the rooftop that day, his mental state had been getting better and better.
"Actually, Mr. Chief, besides hunting wild boar, I'm also particularly good at fishing." Sam said, pushing open the window leading outside with one hand. The wind, mixed with the snarls of zombies from downstairs, instantly poured in.
"But… thinking about it carefully, the last time I properly went fishing was a long, long time ago. Let me think, the process should be like this…" Sam tilted his head, feigning deep recollection. "First, you have to chum the waters, throw in enough bait. Then, cast your hook and float, and then… you just have to wait patiently for the fish to bite."
He hadn't even finished speaking when he suddenly pulled out a sharp fruit knife from his pocket—one he'd found in a drawer in this apartment—and unhesitatingly jabbed it hard into the Chief's plump, bare ass cheek.
"AHHH—!!!" The Chief converted all his fear, humiliation, and intense pain into a piercing shriek that echoed through the sky. He was tied so tightly he couldn't even reach back to cover his bleeding ass.
"Freshly made 'Torn Ass' brand bait, hahaha!" Sam let out a hearty laugh. Laughing, he held the nylon rope tied around the Chief like a kite string, slowly, inch by inch, lowering him out the window.
Downstairs, outside the window, the zombies that had been wandering aimlessly were instantly attracted by this "delicious delicacy" descending from the sky, reeking of rich blood and terrified screams. Like a school of sharks smelling blood, they gathered in a dark mass directly below the window, each one stretching out its decaying arms, head tilted back, fetid mouth agape, constantly leaping and clawing, trying to reach the swaying "bait." The scene was remarkably similar to piranhas in the Amazon River, madly leaping out of the water to snatch insects.
"Aaaaaahhh—Help me—!" The Chief couldn't even form a complete plea for help anymore. The immense fear made his sphincter lose control. A stream of foul-smelling liquid gushed from between his legs, accurately dousing the open mouth of a zombie below that was trying to bite his toes.
"Oh, God! Jesus Christ! Holy Mary! Save me!" This once arrogant, portly Chief was now stripped bare, hanging in mid-air like a pig waiting to be slaughtered. Sam had been "merciful" enough to leave the thin silver crucifix necklace around his neck. Watching his devout appearance, Sam felt a twinge of "sympathy"—he probably should have tied his hands together too; that way, he could have made a more standard, more devoted prayer posture now.
Sam wasn't in a hurry now. He leisurely took out the few pistol magazines he had looted from Charlie and Benjamin from his pocket and checked them. Now, he had a full five loaded magazines, so he didn't have to worry about pistol ammunition for the time being. Next, he fumbled out a cheap plastic lighter, took a cigarette from the pack he had found in the liquor store earlier, lit it, and took a deep drag. The acrid smoke filled his lungs. He let the cigarette hang from the corner of his mouth, then picked up a white candle from the table, lit it with the lighter, and brought the flickering flame close to the taut nylon rope suspending the Chief below.
After all this was done, Sam strolled to the window of the adjacent room, pushed open the dusty pane, and casually propped one foot on the windowsill. He dangled the cigarette from his lips, leisurely puffing out smoke while watching the "fishing feast" unfold below, silently counting down in his mind.
[Twenty… twenty-one… twenty-two…] Sam had been timing it from the moment the candle flame touched the nylon rope. Just as he counted to "twenty-nine," a scream, more piercing and desperate than any before, suddenly erupted from downstairs, immediately followed by the zombies' "joyful," frenzied roars, as if they had hit the jackpot.
The cigarette at the corner of Sam's mouth shot out the window as if ejected. And his body, even faster than the cigarette, leaped from the third-floor window like an agile leopard. He landed precisely on the head of a zombie that was trying to rush towards the "bait," stomping it directly to the ground.
"Sorry, excuse me." Sam politely apologized to the "cushion" under his feet, then used it as a springboard to leap up again. With astonishing speed and agility, he dashed directly towards the police car parked deserted on the opposite side of the street—the one Lester had driven earlier. He yanked open the car door and dove in—luckily, the keys were still in the ignition.
"Sweet!" Sam whistled, in high spirits. He quickly rummaged through the glove compartment on the passenger side of the police car and soon pulled out a somewhat worn, folded city map.
"Misa Pizza… Indian cuisine… All-you-can-eat sushi… Tsk tsk, they all look pretty good." Sam first looked with interest at the restaurants marked on the map, lamenting with some regret what a rotten time he'd transmigrated into. Just then, loud THUDS came from the side window. A few attracted zombies were viciously slamming their decaying heads against the glass. Sam wasted no more time, fiercely started the police car, floored the accelerator, and the car roared as it sped off.
"No hitchhikers allowed." Sam said, yanking the steering wheel hard, executing a neat fishtail that sent a zombie that had just clawed onto the hood flying off. Then, he casually turned on the car radio—only to be met with a burst of static. No music, no programs.
"Speaking of which, what kind of music was popular in the early 21st century anyway?" Sam frowned. "The Beatles? Elvis?… Elvis is way too old… Queen? Michael Jackson?… No, these don't seem to be the hottest acts of this era either…" He found that the songs he knew were either ancient classics or a dime-a-dozen pop songs from his own time; there were very few that fit perfectly into the year 2000.
"Whatever, I'll sing what I want," Sam said, then started singing a song by Queen, turning the steering wheel, heading towards John's home as indicated on the map.