Chapter2

“Chop,” Dylan said. His voice was hoarse, but clear. “Chop off the hand.”

Elena didn't hesitate. The tourniquet was wrapped twice around Dylan's upper right arm and tightened with a metal rod. Dylan's body tensed abruptly, and a muffled groan escaped through his clenched teeth.

“Marcus, hold his shoulder.”

Marcus walked over and pinned Dylan's shoulder joints down with his hands like iron clamps. The big man's palms almost covered Dylan's entire shoulder, firmly holding him in place.

"Morrison, flashlight, aim it at the wound."

Morrison held the tactical flashlight in his mouth, the white light shining on Dylan's arm. The three black finger marks looked even more horrifying in the white light. The upward-spreading black line wasn't a "line," but a vein charred from the inside by pathogens.

Elena picked up the bone saw. Her hands didn't tremble.

The saw blade touched the skin. Dylan let out a crushed sound, a sound of air being forced out from the deepest part of his throat—not a scream, but the sound of air breaking as it is forced through vocal cords locked by fear.

Another fiber snapped in the lock. I felt the back door bulge outwards another inch. I glanced back at the grayish-white finger—the nail was broken off, revealing not red flesh, but grayish-black, rotten wood-like tissue. But the finger was still moving, still scratching. It felt no pain.

"hurry up."

Elena's saw blade sliced into the subcutaneous tissue. No blood flowed—the blood vessels there had been coagulated by pathogens. The saw blade made a grating scraping sound against the bone, like metal scraping against a blackboard, amplified tenfold in the confined space of the train car.

Dylan's eyes rolled back, and his body went limp. He had passed out.

I turned my attention to the door. The footsteps on the roof stopped, replaced by a low, persistent murmur. They were communicating. With that wet sound squeezed from rotting throats, they were sending messages to each other.

How much is outside?

I closed my eyes. I focused my attention on listening—the location, frequency, and movement pattern of the footsteps. The distribution of the high, mid, and low frequency sound sources. I learned this in SWAT's CQB training. "Six to eight. Three on the roof, two on the left side, and at least two at the back door."

"How long until you get in?"

"Less than a minute."

Elena stopped sawing. She pulled out the needles and sutures and began ligating the veins. Her movements were incredibly fast, as if she were compressing her life into every second.

How is he?

"The radial artery has been ligated. The bleeding is less than expected—that thing burned the blood vessel."

"It means his immune system is reacting. Not resisting, but delaying."

Another lock broke. Those things were ramming against the door, each time harder and faster than the last.

"Thirty seconds left."

After tying the last knot, Elena cut the sutures, tied the severed limb with a tourniquet, and stuffed it into a plastic bag. Her hands were covered in grayish-black tissue fluid, but her grip remained steady.

Why keep it?

"If he survives, there will be a sample of the original infected tissue in this hand. It will be needed for vaccine research."

Morrison removed the gun from Dylan and turned it towards the back door. "Don't shoot. The bullets won't go through the door, and ricochets will kill us."

I pulled a flashbang grenade from my tactical vest, hooked the pin on my little finger, and pressed the safety lever firmly with my thumb.

"I'm opening the door. Everyone close your eyes, open your mouths, and bow your heads."

Three. Two. One.

I released my shoulder from the door. The door was violently flung open from the outside, and three infected individuals surged into the carriage simultaneously. They weren't walking; they were like cheetahs—on all fours, spines arched, heads lowered, their white eyes gleaming like three dead moons in the ghastly green emergency lights. They smelled blood. Fresh blood.

I pulled the pin. The stun grenade exploded in my hand—light pierced through my closed eyelids and struck my optic nerve, turning the whole world white. Then a high-frequency shriek drilled into my inner ear, like an invisible awl stabbing into my brain.

The infected's hearing is at least two orders of magnitude more sensitive than humans'. Their world was instantly burned white, then filled with a sound that could tear their nervous system apart. The three infected were thrown backward simultaneously, crashing into the carriage wall, their claws frantically scratching at the metal.

I didn't wait for them to recover. I pressed the M4 muzzle against the forehead of the first infected. One shot. The recoil lifted the muzzle half an inch. The second, two meters away, was shaking its head as it recovered from the flash. I lowered the muzzle. One shot. The third, already outside the car door, was crawling backward. One shot.

Three gunshots rang out in the enclosed underground parking lot. Each shot bounced, overlapped, and amplified between the concrete walls like thunderclaps, creating a metallic roar that was impossible to discern in direction.

Then silence.

My ears were ringing, I couldn't hear anything, just a high-frequency white noise. There were black spots at the edges of my vision—the aftereffects of the stun grenade. But I could see nothing more rushing in through the door. At least two were twitching on the floor—their heads were blown open, but their bodies were still moving. Nerves were still firing, muscles were still contracting. That wasn't a sign of life; it was dead bodies that had forgotten how to stop.

Morrison was the first to recover. "Anything else?"

I held up my index finger and listened intently. The tinnitus was subsiding. The sounds of dripping water, the stress release of concrete, and the low hum of a generator still running in the distance. No more footsteps, no more murmurs.

At least not for now.

I turned to Dylan. He was still alive. His face was as white as chalk, but his chest was rising and falling. He was breathing. He was beating.

"Get him into the car. Let's go."

Where to?

I scrolled down the map, my finger hovering over Koreatown. "I have a safe house in Koreatown. Dylan needs a stable environment to recover."

Morrison stared at the map for a few seconds. "Lead the way."

I lifted Dylan out of the van and placed him in the back of the Ford Expedition, leaning him against Elena. The seatbelt tightened painfully on my back, making me grit my teeth. Elena secured Dylan with the seatbelt.

I checked the supplies in the truck. Two cases of water, a week's worth of rations, a shotgun, and an AR-15—transferred from Morrison's pickup truck. Including the weapons I was carrying.

There are five people in the Ford Expedition: I'm driving, Morrison is in the passenger seat, Elena is in the back left, Marcus is in the back right, and Dylan is in the back middle. Morrison's pickup truck was abandoned near the entrance to the underground parking garage. With five people crammed into the vehicle, plus ammunition and supplies, there's barely any extra space.

From the underground parking lot to Koreatown, I took a route I'd been planning for three years. Not because I foresaw the apocalypse, but because I'm the kind of person who mentally prepares for "what ifs." What if an earthquake cuts off the surface roads? What if a terrorist attack locks down the city center? What if one day you have to completely avoid surface travel?

The group descended from the parking lot to the fourth floor and entered a section of abandoned subway pipeline through a maintenance passage. This pipeline was part of an unfinished section of the red line project, which had been completely forgotten after construction was halted several years ago due to funding issues. I found its blueprints in the city's infrastructure archives a few years ago and spent a weekend walking through it.

There was no light in the tunnel. The infrared flashlight reflected a pale green outline onto the concrete wall. The air was stuffy and humid; every breath felt like drinking hot soup. Water droplets fell from above, landing on puddles and echoing rhythmically.

I walked at the front, M4 shouldered. Morrison brought up the rear, his gun pointed in the direction we had come from. Elena and Marcus were in the middle, Elena supporting Dylan—he was awake, his face as white as paper, but he didn't speak, just followed along. Step by step, step by step.

How much further?

Two kilometers.

How long have you been gone?

"Forty minutes."

Forty minutes later, at the end of the storm drain was a concrete wall with a round hole one meter in diameter and rough drill marks on the edges.

Who opened it?

"Me. Three years ago. With an electric pickaxe."

“…You’re fucking crazy.” Marcus said this without malice. It was the respectful assessment a naval veteran would give to a fellow soldier on another battlefield.

I crawled through the hole and fell into another passage. It was narrower, only wide enough for one person to pass through at a time. Five people passed through one after another. The walls on both sides of the passage were covered with rusty pipes—some dripping water, some making a faint hissing sound, and some completely rusted shut.

Emerging from the access hatch, we stood on the dry concrete floor. This was the underground unloading area; half of the fluorescent lights were still working, emitting a flickering, pale white light due to unstable voltage. Pallets, empty cartons, and abandoned forklifts were piled up all around, and the air smelled musty and remnants of diesel fuel.

I led them through the unloading area to a steel door at the end that looked like an ordinary equipment room. There were no signs on the door; it was identical to the other twenty doors in the corridor. I entered my twelve-digit password, and the keypad briefly lit up green. Iris scan: a very thin red light swept across my right eye. Fingerprint lock: my thumb pressed against the sensor, emitting a short beep.

Three locks, three different authentication methods. The hydraulic lock on the steel door made a dull click, and the door slowly opened inward.

The space behind the door silenced everyone.

The armory was on the left. Rifles and pistols hung on the wall—at least twenty rifles and ten pistols, models covering all engagement scenarios from close to medium range. Thousands of rounds of ammunition were neatly stacked on the racks—9mm, .45, .56, .762, with clear categorization labels. Tactical vests, bulletproof vests, helmets, and night vision goggles—each item was in its designated place.

The medical area is on the right. There's an operating table, a shadowless lamp, a medicine cabinet, and a refrigerator. The medicine cabinet contains antibiotics, painkillers, adrenaline, and coagulants. The refrigerator contains four bags of whole blood—not plasma, but four full bags of whole blood, labeled with blood type and collection date.

The supplies area contains military rations, bottled water, water purification equipment, filter cartridges, diesel generators, and three blue oil drums, each containing fifty gallons.

The communications area is equipped with military-grade radios and satellite communication terminals. A laptop is connected to a printer, and the shelf next to the printer is piled high with printed maps.

“This isn’t a safe house,” Morrison said softly. “This is the capital of a post-apocalyptic colony.”

I didn't reply. I walked to the medical area and pulled out a chair. "Sit down." Dylan was helped down. Elena began to re-treat his severed arm—the previous bandaging had been hastily done in the truck, and now it needed to be cleaned, sutured, and disinfected again.

I turned to the communications area. I turned on the satellite terminal, adjusted the antenna angle, and began scanning for all known military frequencies. I pressed the transmit button and called three times using the standard military emergency call sign. No response. I tried two more frequencies. Still no response.

“The military is gone.” Morrison leaned against the wall and took off his cowboy hat.

I didn't give up. I set the terminal to automatic polling and walked back to the armory. I took an MK18 short-barreled rifle from the wall and attached a suppressor. This gun was four inches shorter than the standard M4, making it faster and more agile in close-quarters combat indoors. I stuffed eight magazines, thirty rounds each, into my tactical vest. With the ammunition I had, I now had four hundred rounds of rifle ammunition.

Then they walked back to the medical area. Elena had finished cleaning and suturing the severed arm and was bandaging it. Dylan's face was still pale, but his pupils had returned to normal and were no longer dilated.

How are you feeling?

"It feels like someone chopped off my hand." Dylan's voice was soft, but steady.

You'll get used to it.

I put Dylan's blood sample into the testing device. Fifteen minutes later, the results showed that the pathogen load had not increased and the host's immune response was active.

“You’re immune.” I showed the report to everyone. “Not completely immune, but your body is fighting back. This means two things. First, a portion of the population has natural resistance to this pathogen. Second, if we find a vaccine, your blood will be the key.”

"Where is the vaccine?" Morrison asked.

I walked to the communications area, pulled a map from the shelf, and spread it on the table. The city of Hope was circled in red marker.

"The CDC lab. They received a meteorite sample before the apocalypse. Before they stopped reporting, I heard the last thing they said—they found the pathogen's genetic sequence."

Morrison looked at the map. "You're going to Hope City?"

"right."

What about Dylan?

I glanced at the young man in the medical ward. “He’ll stay here. Once we make contact with Granite Hill, the military will send someone to pick him up.”

Marcus looked up from the ammunition box. "I'll stay with him alone. You guys go to Hope City."

I considered for five seconds. "Okay. Elena will come with us to Hope City. Morrison will come with me."

I walked up to the armory and placed an AR-15 and six magazines in front of Marcus. I also got a week's worth of antibiotics from the medical area.

"There's a radio station in the communications area. Contact them three times a day. If you can't reach them twice in a row, take Dylan and leave. Head east, into the desert, and don't look back."

Marcus picked up the AR-15, pulled the bolt to check it, and slung it over his shoulder. "I can hold it."

I stuffed the Hope City map into my pocket. "Let's set off at dawn."

Just as I was about to turn off the satellite terminal, the screen flashed. A message appeared. The sender's identifier was a string of unfamiliar numbers, and the decryption key was my name.

“I know where the gene sequence is. I also know where the second wave of meteors is. Come to Hope City. —Ethan Cole”

I stared at the name for three seconds. I didn't recognize it. I showed the information to Morrison.

"know?"

"I don't know him."

I glanced at the map. "Hope City was the place we were going to anyway."