Chapter 2
Three shirtless guards were gathered around a card table made of ammunition boxes, slamming several playing cards and rusty coins onto the table.
The pickup truck's bright red brake lights came on as it screeched to a halt in front of the inner-city security checkpoint.
The spacious checkpoint was as empty as a graveyard.
The security checkpoint, which originally required two people to form a team and provide cross-coverage, now only had one young man named Jamie.
He casually leaned his assault rifle against a sandbag, slumped in a folding chair like a rag doll, and chewed on his nails.
As for his partner, he's long since disappeared and is now hiding somewhere.
The roar of the engine finally made Jamie stand up impatiently.
He slipped on his tactical boots, didn't even grab his gun, and staggered to the back of the pickup truck, roughly yanking open the metal door of the cargo bed.
A wave of scorching heat, carrying with it a strong, sour stench, hit us.
Jamie instinctively covered his nose, about to unleash a torrent of curses, when his gaze suddenly froze on the corner.
Martha cowered in the shadows like a mother beast protecting her cubs, tightly embracing her daughter who was wrapped in a thick blanket.
The girl's pale face had an unnatural ashen hue, and her rapid, weak breathing was amplified infinitely in the confined carriage.
"Hold!"
Jamie jolted back as if electrocuted, then whirled around and grabbed the rifle from the sandbag. The metallic clang of the bolt being pulled was crisp and deadly.
The dark muzzle of the gun was pointed directly at Martha's head.
"Bitened by a zombie?! All of you, get the hell down here!"
Yes! That's it!
My soul roared wildly in mid-air, a long-lost bloodthirsty thrill coursing through my body. Shoot! Or sound the alarm! If he pulls the trigger, this town can still be saved!
"Sir! Don't shoot! Please don't shoot!"
The driver's cab door was violently kicked open, and Tom burst out like a stray dog with its spine broken, collapsing heavily to his knees on the gravel ground with a thud.
His hands were raised high, trembling like withered leaves in the wind, and his knees were frantically scraping forward on the gravel.
"No bite! Really, no bite! The child just got a fever from being out in the wind in the wilderness!"
Tom pleaded incoherently as he lifted his oil-stained, dirty coat and pulled something out of his pocket.
A bottle of whiskey.
A whole bottle, perfectly sealed. In this world where even clean water is a matter of life and death, this stuff is ten times more expensive than gold.
Jamie's roar stopped abruptly.
Those pupils, which had been bulging with fear, now seemed glued to the bottle, their greedy glimmer instantly consuming reason.
The gun barrel pressed against Martha's head lowered without her noticing.
Tom keenly seized this slight lapse in attention and immediately scrambled forward, shoving the expensive bottle of whiskey into Jamie's trembling hands.
"Sir, please do me a favor. You know, half of the food rations are deducted when we go into the quarantine room, and the child will starve to death."
Jamie's Adam's apple bobbed violently as he gripped the bottle tightly, glanced around quickly, and then shoved it into his large tactical pants pocket.
He pretended to reach into the carriage and touched the girl's burning forehead with his rough fingers.
Even I, a soul devoid of touch, could tell from Jamie's instantly twitching eyes that the temperature was absolutely terrifyingly hot.
But he simply wiped his hands as if nothing had happened.
"Cough, it's really just a cold. Be more careful next time, hurry up and get inside, don't block the way."
He waved his hand, turned around and walked to the control panel, and pressed the green button to open the gate.
Fuck your cold! That's the incubation period for zombie transformation!
There was no mandatory quarantine, no seven-day isolation, and even a basic full-body search was omitted!
The safety procedures I painstakingly built were completely compromised by a bottle of cheap alcohol.
The moment the gate opened, Tom floored the accelerator.
Following the desperate roar of the engine, my soul was nailed to the roof of the car and dragged into the unsuspecting heart of Morningstar Town.
The wheels skidded wildly through the muddy alleys of the West End slums, eventually crashing hard into the porch of their own wooden house.
Tom jumped out of the car and, like dragging a corpse, shoved his wife and unconscious daughter into the dark room.
The rusty padlock clicked shut, the crisp metallic clanging sound like a countdown to death.
After doing all this, Tom leaned against the wooden door, panting heavily, his clothes completely soaked with cold sweat.
But he dared not stop.
If he doesn't hand over today's search list to the supply warehouse, the patrol will soon discover that he deserted and returned early, and then Kares's men will definitely come to search his house.
This almost frantic will to survive drove him to stumble and stagger toward the supply warehouse in the center of the town.
My soul followed him closely, through the bustling streets, all the way to that heavy iron gate.
The warehouse was filled with the smell of stale wheat and preservatives.
Behind the counter stood Jack, the warehouse manager.
The gruesome scar on the shoulder of this veteran, which runs across his entire back, was left three years ago when I carried him out of a pile of corpses.
He was the "eyes" I trusted most during my lifetime, and the most steadfast and iron-fisted executor of the rules governing the management of materials.
"The list is incorrect."
Jack put down his ledger and stared intently at Tom's pale face with his hawk-like eyes.
"The number is reduced by half. Did you encounter a horde of zombies?"
Tom shuddered violently, his pupils contracting uncontrollably.
"Yes...yes! I encountered a few wandering zombies and had to drop my things before I could barely run back."
He is lying.
Jack squinted, his rough fingers slowly sliding towards the gun handle at his waist.
The veteran's intuition, honed on the brink of life and death, allowed him to sense an extremely dangerous atmosphere.
As long as Jack draws his gun and investigates thoroughly, this catastrophe can be nipped in the bud!
But Jack's finger paused on the gun handle for three seconds before finally letting go.
He looked at Tom's pathetic, wretched appearance, a hint of weary sympathy flashing in his eyes.
"Times are tough, but honest people still have to survive."
Jack picked up the stamp and slammed it down on the incomplete list.
“I can understand hoarding a little canned food. But don’t be so obvious next time.”
He patted Tom on the shoulder and pushed the list back.
Tom felt like he'd been granted a pardon. He grabbed the confirmation slip and stumbled out of the warehouse.
The warehouse fell silent again.
Jack picked up his pen again, thinking he had just shown mercy and let go of a poor father who had secretly hoarded beans to give his daughter more food.
I stood in front of Jack, looking at the brother I had risked my life to save, and gave a silent, bitter laugh.
He didn't know that he hadn't just let go of a few jars of beans.
It was a flesh-and-blood bomb whose fuse had been pulled and whose countdown had begun.
