[b]Erik Wright[/b]

The last few minutes of Chief Hornby's life was a blur. He was in the police cruiser, with sergeant Wright at the wheel, speeding away from a massacre. He'd lost a lot of good officers at that roadblock, many of them he'd known since he was a beat walker himself... and now they were gone; lost to a disease that was the stuff of fiction- no, the stuff of nightmares. 

The next thing he knew, Wright was firing blindly towards the back of the car, and the Chief soon saw why. He'd managed to manoeuvre his 12-gauge around just as the car struck something solid, sending him flying through the wind-shield. He hit the concrete hard, rolling several times. His shotgun skidded several feet away from him, and with broken arms he crawled sluggishly towards it just as the sprinting form of sergeant Wright crossed his red-hazed sight. 

"Sergeant!" the Chief yelled, his voice racked with pain. 

But it was too late, as a pair of cold and grimy hands fell onto the back of his scalp, yanking his head backwards. Chief Hornby screamed in agony as incisors, coated in days-old gore, sunk into his flesh. Other infected, brought by the sound of the crash, joined in the feeding frenzy, ripping the flesh from the police chief's bones as if it were some kind of macabre buffet. 

One infected though, an overweight African American with dreads, sensed something... heard something. Footsteps, hitting the pavement hard. It turned slowly towards the apartment building, and though it couldn't see Sergeant Wright, it could smell him. Slowly, it stumbled towards the building, leaving its comrades to feast on Chief Hornby.