Alan pulled back his fist, looked at the dark red filth stained on it, and then looked at the completely motionless corpse on the ground, his face written all over with disbelief.
"This... is this the power given by that golden giant... the Emperor?"
Alan muttered to himself, closing and opening his fingers, feeling the surging power in his muscles that far exceeded the past, as well as that precise sense of control over his body.
He even had an absurd thought that with his current state, if he went to fight in underground boxing, he could easily knock down those super heavyweight champions.
Roy also felt the changes in himself.
It was not just an increase in strength and accuracy; his senses seemed to have become sharper, able to more clearly capture subtle sounds and changes in scent in the fog. His body's reaction speed, coordination, and even endurance had taken a qualitative leap.
The shooting and moving just now hardly made him feel much fatigue.
This power solidly transformed their bodies, yet it did not deprive them of their consciousness and rationality; instead, it made their willpower clearer and firmer.
Up to this point, the last trace of doubt in Roy's heart regarding the Emperor's essence was also replaced by this tangible blessing.
Unlike other religions he knew of, those ethereal gods often required believers to offer sacrifices, strictly abide by complex commandments, and even self-torture could not buy a shred of pity.
And what about the Emperor?
His daughter Emily merely prayed to the concept behind an internet picture in extreme terror, and received a direct response and salvation.
Now, ordinary people like them who could not even be considered believers, just because they were willing to protect others and fight the darkness, received such an intuitive, powerful gift of strength.
What this Emperor wanted seemed to be merely the identity of a human, and that positive emotion of being willing to fight for one's own kind.
Protection and power were the direct rewards for this.
This was more like a...
Grand contract based on racial survival, rather than demands based on a personality cult.
"It seems our boss is much more generous and pragmatic than we imagined."
Roy said to Alan in a low voice, his tone carrying a trace of unprecedented confidence, "Use this power carefully, but don't waste it. The things here are crucial for us and the kids over at the gas station."
Alan nodded heavily, raging fighting spirit igniting in his eyes, "Understood, boss. I feel like... my whole body is full of energy right now!"
The two no longer hesitated, exchanged a glance, and like two artillery shells fired from a cannon, brazenly charged deep into the military camp.
Those mutants scattered and wandering around, attempting to block them, became incredibly fragile before them.
Roy's shotgun seemed to fuse with his arm. Every time it roared, it could precisely tear apart targets at the most effective range;
Alan abandoned complex tactical shooting, instead utilizing his speed and strength, getting close to perform efficient, violent clearances with his rifle butt, boots, and even his fists.
They sprinted through the dead and bloody ruins of the military camp, leaving only completely silent, mutated remains in their wake.
The scene inside the military camp was even more tragic than at the entrance, more clearly revealing the chaos when the disaster struck.
The doors and windows of many barracks were violently destroyed, and the hallways and rooms were covered with bullet holes, bloodstains, and traces of struggle.
Judging from the condition and position of some soldiers' corpses, it was obvious that some soldiers on duty or those who were not infected immediately went through painful choices and cruel mutual slaughter when facing monsters that were suddenly transformed from their former comrades.
On the walls, one could sometimes see words of despair scribbled in blood or charcoal, or haphazardly piled makeshift covers.
But Roy and Alan's hearts were filled with their goals—searching for weapons, ammunition, medicine, any useful supplies, and possible survivors.
They advanced following the direction of the gunshots they had heard earlier.
The gunshots came from the west side of the military camp, a relatively independent barracks area.
The traces of battle here were especially fresh. The mutant corpses on the ground were mostly killed at close range by rifle bullets, and the sheer number was astonishing, nearly blocking the passage leading to a reinforced barracks building.
The main door of that barracks building was tightly closed, but most of the side windows were broken. Hoarse roars faintly came from inside, clearly indicating a good number of mutants remained. At the same time, there was a man cursing madly and despairingly, "Come on! You bastards! Come again!"
"Hahaha! Kill! Kill you all!"
"I'll kill however many there are! Avenge Taylor, avenge Johnson!"
The voice was filled with the rage of being on the verge of collapse and endless sorrow.
Hearing this, Roy and Alan quickly cleared away the obstacle of corpses piled up in the passage and at the entrance of the barracks.
They did not rush in immediately, but first listened to the movements inside.
The gunshots suddenly became denser, followed by the click of the slide locking back on an empty magazine, immediately succeeded by the metal clatter of a magazine dropping and a new one being inserted, and the gunshots rang out again...
This cycle repeated a few times.
It seemed that the person inside had plenty of ammunition, but an extremely unstable mental state.
Finally, after one reload, the gunshots only lasted for a few short seconds before an ominous, metallic jamming sound was heard—the gun jammed.
"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!!!"
The cursing inside sharply rose, filled with exasperation and deeper panic, "This piece of garbage gun! It should have been fucking replaced ages ago! Damn it! Damn it!"
Next came the chaotic sounds of roughly pulling the bolt and slapping the magazine in an attempt to clear the jam, accompanied by continuous, incoherent cursing.
Roy knew the opportunity had come.
He took a deep breath and shouted into the barracks with a volume that was as clear and steady as possible while being able to pierce through the chaotic noise, "Person inside! Don't shoot! We are police officers from Ronda Town! I repeat, we are police officers! Not monsters! Don't shoot us by mistake!"
His shout echoed in the bloody hallway.
The cursing and the sounds of fiddling with the firearm inside the barracks abruptly stopped.
After a few seconds of dead silence, a hoarse, trembling, loud laugh filled with deep suspicion and madness came from inside, "Ha! Hahaha! Police officers? Ronda Town? Go fool a ghost! A bunch of monsters can learn to speak like humans now? How is that possible! Trying to trick me into opening the door? Dream on! Fuck! This broken gun!"
The other party seemed to be wrestling even harder with the jammed rifle, making a louder noise, and then accompanied by a frustrated roar and a muffled thud of metal hitting the ground, it sounded like he threw the gun away. This was immediately followed by the sound of fumbling for other items—very likely searching for a backup weapon or a grenade.
They couldn't wait any longer!
Roy made a hand signal to Alan. The two violently darted in from both sides of the doorway, their muzzles instantly pointing toward the direction the sound came from—a small room deep inside the barracks that had been converted into a temporary command post or meeting room.
The room was a complete mess; documents were scattered, tables and chairs were overturned, and communication equipment was shattered.
A good number of mutant corpses were likewise piled on the floor, and the heavy stench of blood was almost suffocating.
In the innermost corner of the room, a figure leaning his back against a filing cabinet was frantically trying to grab another rifle from an open equipment box at his feet.
Hearing the footsteps breaking through the door and the sound of weapons being cocked, the man stiffened and, extremely slowly, with endless vigilance and despair, turned around.
When his gaze met Roy and Alan's, a flash of unbelievable clarity suddenly passed through those bloodshot eyes full of madness and terror.
?!
What entered Roy's sight was a young US soldier, his face covered in dirty blood and sweat, his camouflage uniform in tatters, yet his eyes erupting with astonishing brilliance at this moment.
The man looked in his early twenties at most. There was a fresh scrape on his cheek, and his hands were covered in bloodstains and gun oil.
Seeing that although Roy and Alan were fully armed and had cold expressions, their faces were normal and they had no traces of mutation on their bodies, especially the standard police weapons in their hands, and Roy's sheriff uniform, which, though covered in filth, was still recognizable...
The soldier's nerves, taut to the extreme, seemed to be instantly drained of their last ounce of supporting strength.
He stopped reaching for that rifle and instead, trembling and slowly, raised his bloodstained hands above his head. He even held a grenade with the safety pin not yet pulled in his palm.
His lips quivered, and his voice went from the previous maddened roaring to an almost whimpering, post-survival tremble, "Guys... don't... don't shoot. Also... to be able to see living people... is really... fucking great!"
After saying this, the man seemed to have exhausted all his strength. With his back against the filing cabinet, he slowly slid down to sit on the floor, and that grenade also rolled out of his weak hand, making a soft clattering sound on the floor.
He lowered his head, and his shoulders began to heave violently. The fear, sorrow, and loneliness that had been suppressed for who knew how long seemed to finally find an outlet to vent at this moment, turning into a silent tremble more heart-wrenching than any wailing.
6Seeing that young soldier put down his weapon and slide to the ground in an emotional breakdown, Roy and Alan's taut nerves relaxed slightly, but their gun muzzles were not immediately lowered, and their vigilance remained.
In this hellish world, any negligence could be fatal.
The soldier kept his head down, his shoulders trembling violently. After a good while, he began to speak intermittently and incoherently, as if he would go completely insane the next moment if he didn't pour out the fear and pain in his chest.
"I... my name is Davidson, Benjamin Davidson, belonging to the... hell, what's the point of this anymore!"
He lifted his face covered in dirty blood and tear tracks, his gaze unfocused, "Since yesterday, no, the early hours of this morning?
Once the damn fog rolled in, everything fell into chaos!
First all communications were cut off, radar went to static, and then... then things started happening in the barracks!
People were screaming, people were going crazy. We thought it was a prank, but they... they really changed! Turned into those man-eating monstrosities outside!"
His voice began to rise, carrying hysterical lingering fear, "We shot, we fought desperately!
We fought from the early hours of the morning until the afternoon, and only barely managed to mostly clear out those things in the camp! But we couldn't contact anyone! Headquarters,
Sister units... it was like they all disappeared!
We were isolated by this damn fog!"
The soldier grabbed his hair and curled up in pain, "When night fell, everyone really couldn't hold on anymore, we were exhausted and terrified.
The lieutenant said to take turns resting, and I along with a few other comrades were responsible for the first watch, but... but those brothers who fell asleep..."
His voice abruptly turned sharp and full of despair, "After they fell asleep, their bodies started to twist, making weird sounds!
We watched helplessly... watched them turn from our comrades into new monsters! We could only shoot again... eventually... eventually"
Benjamin Davidson's voice choked up to the point where he could barely form sentences. He raised his bloodshot eyes and looked at Roy and Alan. That look was filled with the indescribable, complex emotion of a survivor on the verge of collapse seeing his own kind. "Eventually, I was the only one left. I thought I was going to go crazy too, or that I would be next. Seeing you guys... seeing living people... oh god..."
Roy slowly lowered his gun muzzle, and Alan also moved his gun away.
They could understand this despair.
The encounter in Ronda Town was replayed here in a more concentrated and tragic manner.
"We understand, Davidson." Alan spoke, his voice deliberately made gruff and direct to interrupt the other party's immersion in sorrow. "Now is not the time to cry. We are from Ronda Town, the situation there is worse.
We need weapons, ammunition, medicine, and everything usable. You're a soldier here, you're familiar with the situation. Can you lead the way?"
Benjamin Davidson was momentarily stunned, seemingly pulled back to reality by Alan's straightforward demand.
He wiped his face hard and struggled to his feet. The madness in his eyes faded a little, replaced by a soldier's instinct and a faint glimmer of being needed.
"I can... I can! The armory, warehouse, fuel station, maintenance workshop, I know where they are! Most of our equipment is still there, it's just..."
He looked at the corpses all over the floor and the shattered barracks, his eyes dimming for a moment, but then lit up with a trace of pride and pragmatism belonging to an armored trooper, "I'm an armored trooper, I drive the M2 Bradley. There should still be working ones over at the motor pool. If there's enough fuel, we could even drive one out! That thing is way sturdier than your police cars!"
Roy's eyes lit up. An infantry fighting vehicle?
This was simply an unexpected delight!
Not only did it have strong defensive capabilities, but it could also carry a massive amount of supplies, making it an excellent tool for establishing and consolidating a base.
"Lead the way." Roy was brief and to the point.
Under Davidson's guidance, the three quickly took action.
They first cleared out the remaining scattered mutants in the barracks area. The process was surprisingly easy, and the accuracy and strength displayed by Roy and Alan once again secretly shocked Davidson. Then they headed straight for the target areas.
The heavy alloy door of the armory was ajar, and it was brightly lit inside, as the backup generators were still running after all. And the sight made Roy and Alan hold their breath.
Although the rows of gun racks were somewhat messy, they were still hung full of carbines, squad automatic weapons, and even a few general-purpose machine guns.
In the cabinets by the wall, whole boxes of 5.56mm and 7.62mm NATO bullets, as well as various grenades, smoke grenades, and flashbangs were piled up like mountains.
Body armor, helmets, tactical vests, night vision goggles, and communication equipment were all available.
The air was filled with the smell of gun oil and new metal, which to them at this moment was undoubtedly a heavenly scent.
The logistics warehouse was even more of a treasure trove.
Cases of military MREs, bottled water, energy bars, and canned foods were piled into mountains.
In the medical section, drugs and supplies such as morphine, antibiotics, suture kits, tourniquets, and disinfectants were a feast for the eyes.
In the engineering equipment section, barbed wire, sandbags, shovels, pickaxes, toolboxes, and even large generators could be found.
The storage tanks at the fuel station still had reserves, and dozens of standard military oil drums were neatly stacked nearby.
They found a Humvee that could still start and began frantically moving things.
What made the two's blood boil the most was the motor pool.
Among rows of canvas-covered steel behemoths, Davidson smoothly found an M2 Bradley infantry fighting vehicle in relatively the best maintained condition.
Davidson climbed in and inspected it. A moment later, the engine let out a low and powerful roar, and the exhaust pipe spat out a puff of blue smoke.
For the next few hours, the three turned into tireless porters.
Using the Humvee and physical labor, they continuously sent boxes of ammunition, weapons, food, medicine, and those precious oil drums into the Bradley's rear troop compartment and external mounting points.
The massive advantage of the tracked infantry fighting vehicle was fully revealed at this moment. It could easily roll over ruins and debris, and its load capacity far exceeded that of wheeled vehicles.
Watching the originally empty troop compartment gradually fill up with supplies, that satisfying hoarder's feeling of accumulating survival capital in the apocalypse greatly diluted the surrounding atmosphere of death.
When the last few drums of fuel were secured to the outside of the hull, and Davidson had confirmed that all gauges were normal, the fuel tank was full, and the weapon systems had ample backup ammunition, he sat in the driver's seat. Roy and Alan entered the troop compartment, surrounded by mountains of spoils of war.
Rumble... boom...
The Bradley emitted the heavy grinding sound of its tracks, slowly drove out of the tomb-like military camp, rolled over the shattered gates, and plunged headlong into the dense fog and night outside.
The powerful searchlights mounted on the front of the vehicle tore through the fog, illuminating the desolate road ahead.
"Yawn..."
While driving, Davidson couldn't help but yawn, his eyelids so heavy they were almost glued together.
He forced himself to stay awake, his voice carrying deep exhaustion and fear, "You two, I can barely hold on anymore. I've hardly closed my eyes since the incident started... but I don't dare to sleep, I'm afraid that the moment I close my eyes, I'll turn out just like my brothers..."
Roy looked at the tree shadows flashing by outside the window and replied calmly, "Hang in there. Once we get back to our temporary base, you can get a good sleep."
"Really?" Davidson's voice was full of doubt and longing. "It's safe there? I can sleep?"
Alan chimed in from the side, his tone carrying a peculiar certainty, "As long as you believe in the Emperor of Humanity, Samuel Young, you can sleep peacefully without worrying about turning into a monster."
"The Emperor of Humanity... Samuel Young?"
Davidson blankly repeated the name in the driver's seat, and furthermore, he saw the kind of almost devout seriousness on Roy and Alan's faces that was not a joke...
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