Chapter 2

The pungent smell of burning flesh seeped into my nostrils through the half-open car window, and the outline of the interstate ahead was illuminated red by the towering flames.

I turned off the pickup truck and, under the cover of darkness, got out. The asphalt road beneath my feet was littered with shards of glass from a multi-vehicle collision, making a faint, crunching sound as I stepped on them.

A few hundred meters away, the motel that had originally served as our shelter was now surrounded by a makeshift barricade made of abandoned vehicles.

In front of the barricades, a blazing fireball suddenly rose up, illuminating the night sky.

"Hand over the supplies, or turn them into charcoal." Derek's voice carried on the night wind, carrying an irresistible sense of oppression.

Orange flames surged in his palms, illuminating his frenzied face. Several survivors who had tried to resist cowered in the mud, surrounded by charred corpses still emitting wisps of smoke.

With his "fire" ability, he easily took control of the stranded convoy.

Those ordinary people who were originally fleeing for their lives have now become armed guards working for him, pointing the shotguns they scavenged from the carriage at their fellow citizens.

Two blinding beams of flashlight light suddenly swept across my direction.

I crouched low and slid into the shadows, hugging the edge of an overturned van.

A direct breakthrough was not realistic, as the density of sentries around the hotel was far greater than expected.

I closed my eyes, and the "tracking" mark on the back of my left hand began to heat up.

The darkness in my mind was quickly dispelled, and a three-dimensional map constructed from perception quietly unfolded.

A dozen or so red dots representing living people were distributed around the hotel. Their movement patterns, blind spots, and even the slightest displacements of their steps were as clearly visible to me as glow-in-the-dark road signs.

Five meters to the left front, two red dots are approaching. That's the meeting point for the changing of the guard.

I gripped the hunting knife at my waist and, keeping to the fleeting rhythm, silently vaulted over the highway guardrail.

Military boots crunched on the overgrown mud, brushing past the edge of the flashlight beam. The two guards were muttering complaints about the cold weather, completely unaware that death had just slipped past them.

The noise from the hotel's main building gradually faded away, replaced by the creaking sound of rusty iron sheets being blown by the wind.

An abandoned gas station appeared in the night. Like a lurking beast, it was positioned perfectly in the blind spot behind the hotel.

A few rays of moonlight shone through the corrugated iron roof, and the air was filled with the pungent smell of a mixture of old engine oil and volatile fuel.

I slowed my breathing, avoiding the scattered glass bottles and receipts, and headed straight for the area of discarded fuel barrels at the back.

There were seven or eight huge, rusty iron drums piled up here, with faded flammable markings still visible on their surfaces. I crouched down and ran my fingertips over the brass valve at the bottom of one of the drums.

A rough metallic feel came through. A safety pin was inserted into the valve to maintain pressure.

I tapped the barrel lightly with my knuckles, and the dull echo indicated the abundance of residual oil inside.

Derek loves fire; this would be an excellent burial place for him.

I straightened up, my right hand loosely gripping the safety pin, holding it firmly in the air, and then suddenly made a pulling motion.

The "preset" mark on the back of my hand flashed.

This time, I set a delayed timeframe in my mind. Like turning the pages of an invisible hourglass, I let it trigger at a specific moment when the sand runs out.

The motion recording is complete. An unseen force hovers above the latch, silently lurking in the air filled with a pungent odor.

Having made all the arrangements, I didn't look back once. I quietly retreated along the dry drainage ditch behind the gas station to a high slope a few hundred meters away.

Lying down behind the cold, weathered rocks, I set up my tactical binoculars, the crosshairs of which were aimed at the slightly ajar metal door of the gas station.

The wind shifted, accompanied by a few urgent barks from dogs.

A group of figures carrying torches suddenly appeared at the edge of the frame, with Derek leading the way. He was clearly extremely sensitive to the security situation in the surrounding area, personally leading the team to patrol the perimeter.

The orange-red flame danced in his palm, illuminating the muddy ground with every detail.

The sound of the footsteps in the group suddenly stopped.

In the footage, Derek suddenly lowers his head and stares intently at the muddy ground outside the gas station.

There was a clear trail of tire tracks. The rugged tread pattern characteristic of wide off-road tires left deep imprints on the soft mud.

Those are the unique tire tread patterns on my pickup truck. Before his rebirth, he watched me put these heavy-duty tires on the vehicle.

Derek's facial muscles twitched violently, and the leaping flame in his hand suddenly rose several inches, revealing the shock in his heart.

He suddenly raised his head, his gaze sweeping across the unfathomable darkness around him like a venomous snake.

“He’s not dead…” Derek gritted his teeth and squeezed out the words, then drew the pistol from his waist.

The click of a bullet being chambered was particularly crisp in the quiet night.

"Block the highway exits! Don't let a single fly out!"

He turned his gun around and pointed it straight at the end of the tire tracks—the abandoned gas station.

"Search him! Dig three feet into the ground if you must, find him!"

The armed guards behind him spread out nervously, fanning out towards the gas station. Derek, flames rising from his hands, strode towards the tightly closed metal door.

I lay prone on the high slope, letting the night wind blow through my collar.

His gaze was fixed on the invisible hourglass.

The sand is about to run out.