"RUN!"
The panicked scream sent a jolt through every person inside the shopping center. They looked down at the bedrolls — nothing but piled junk where bodies should have been — and understood instantly. They scrambled after Balke toward the exit.
BOOM! BOOM!
But just as Balke was about to reach the corridor, two thunderous explosions rocked both sides of the passage. Smoke billowed as the heaped debris lining the walls collapsed inward, sealing the only way out in a matter of seconds.
Balke wasn't about to give up that easily. It was just rubble — climb fast, find your footing, push through.
Crack!
"Shit — FIRE!"
Before he could make his move, the sound of shattering glass erupted behind him, followed by screams of pure terror.
He spun around. The stench of gasoline hit him like a wall. The piles of junk surrounding the central clearing had erupted into roaring flames, encircling every last one of them in a ring of fire.
In that split second of distraction, a flaming bottle sailed from somewhere above and smashed into the debris pile he'd been about to climb. The firelight illuminated the raw fear on his face.
Cold sweat poured down his temples. Balke's legs gave out and he collapsed where he stood, staring at the wall of flame. If he'd started climbing a moment earlier, it wouldn't just be debris burning right now — it would be him.
"They're upstairs! Shoot!"
With the only exit sealed, the trapped survivors scattered like headless flies. Someone screamed the order, and those who still had ammunition raised their weapons toward the upper floors, firing wildly.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Rat-tat-tat—!
Gunfire erupted throughout the shopping center, mingling with terrified screams. Not a single one of them had even seen the enemy, yet they all knew they were trapped. Even if no one came for them, the smoke alone would kill them eventually.
Bullets shattered the glass railings on the second floor, sending a cascade of shards raining down, slicing faces and arms open.
Click. Click.
One by one, guns ran dry. The telltale sound of empty chambers echoed through the chaos.
"Stop shooting! They're baiting us into wasting ammo!"
A few sharper minds in the group caught on, shouting warnings to the others.
But the instant one of them raised his voice, a Molotov cocktail plummeted from above, engulfing the nearest people in a fireball that swallowed his words whole.
"HELP ME! SOMEBODY HELP ME!"
Unimaginable agony flooded the minds of those set ablaze. Shrieking like the deranged, they chased after their companions, clawing at anyone they could reach, begging to be saved.
All it accomplished was spreading the carnage. Several onlookers, unable to bear the sight any longer, raised their pistols and put the burning ones down.
After the first Molotov, more rained from above — smashing across the central clearing, each impact birthing a new column of fire.
"Watch out! Dodge!"
These survivors had spent years navigating city ruins and fighting Infected. Once the initial panic subsided and they saw the firebombs arcing down, they began looking up, timing their movements, dodging with desperate agility.
But as the bombardment intensified, the safe ground shrank. Thick smoke filled their lungs. Some were already losing focus, their movements growing sluggish.
Everyone understood: if they didn't find a way out, they were all going to die here.
"Dammit!"
A heavyset bald man cursed, tossed his empty gun aside, and reached into his jacket — producing two grenades.
He stared at them with visible reluctance. He'd been saving these for when the enemy finally showed themselves. But the situation had left him no choice.
His eyes swept the area and locked onto an escape route — the escalator to the second floor.
He ripped the pin from one grenade and hurled it at the sparse barricade blocking the escalator entrance.
BOOM!
The blast scattered the flaming debris, blowing a gap in the obstruction. Fire still licked across the path, but a passage was visible.
"Follow me!"
The heavyset man snatched several unburned blankets from the ground, layered them together, and charged toward the escalator like a bull.
Those who saw him make his break didn't think twice — they followed.
Swinging the blankets like a battering ram, the man smashed aside burning wreckage, carving a path through sheer force.
Even with flames scorching through their shoe soles, no one cared. When your life was at stake, a little pain meant nothing.
He slammed the folded blankets over the last flaming crate blocking the way, smothering the fire just long enough to haul himself over. For a man his size, the burst of agility was almost comical — he cleared the obstacle in seconds.
The ones behind him scrambled to follow. Three, four made it over — but the blankets were already heating up, the fabric nearly ready to combust. A few more crossings and the makeshift bridge would ignite, cutting off everyone behind it.
The people at the back weren't stupid. They surged forward in desperation, shoving and climbing over each other. One man who'd nearly made it to the top was dragged back down, slammed to the ground, trampled underfoot.
"GET OUT OF MY WAY!"
From the rear of the mob came a familiar roar, but no one heeded it. Everyone was too busy fighting for their own survival to care about anyone else.
Seeing that his command was ignored, Balke's face twisted with rage. Without a shred of hesitation, he raised his rifle and opened fire on the backs of the people blocking his path.
During the firebomb barrage, he'd been sitting on the ground in a state of shock, too paralyzed with fear to even move. But luck had been absurdly kind to him — not a single Molotov had landed anywhere near his position. His magazine was still completely full, every round unspent.
Rat-tat-tat—!
The rifle spat a stream of bullets into the crowd ahead. They punched through backs, erupted from chests, sent crimson sprays arcing through the firelit air.
In seconds, more than a dozen people lay dead at his feet.
With the path cleared, that signature savage grin spread across Balke's face. He sprinted forward and vaulted over the barrier just before the blankets caught fire — landing on the other side to the terrified stares of the few who'd already crossed.
He advanced on them, grin widening, as if the man who'd been paralyzed with fear moments ago had never existed. "What are you standing around for? Get upstairs before you burn to death."
He shoved past them without ceremony and bolted for the escalator.
The survivors on this side of the barrier stood motionless, watching the flames devour the bodies on the other side. Horror etched itself into every face.
Their group had its share of internal conflict — but they'd never outright murdered their own. Killing companions didn't just reduce their fighting strength; it created fractures that could never be repaired.
And Balke had just slaughtered two-thirds of their combat-capable people. Even setting aside the moral implications — there were still enemies in this building.
While they stood frozen, Balke had already charged up the escalator, rifle raised, scanning for threats. He knew exactly what the people behind him were thinking. He didn't care. Better them than him.
His only thought now was escape. Once he reached the camp, he'd load a vehicle with supplies and get as far from this city as possible.
Revenge never crossed his mind. Nobody knew the camp's true situation better than Balke — plenty of bodies, but all untrained civilians. They didn't stand a chance against soldiers who could set traps like this.
Ting.
His foot snagged on something. A faint metallic snap.
Balke looked down instinctively. In the flickering firelight, a severed tripwire lay at his feet. He raised his eyes to stare ahead, and the word that left his lips was pure despair—
...
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