Courtyard House: I fish in the heavens, a professional bird abuser.

As soon as He Yuanchao and his two companions reached the main road, they knew this journey would not be easy.

Looking down from the rooftop is one thing.

Facing it from the ground is a different story.

The buildings on both sides of the street resembled a narrow canyon, compressing both visibility and escape routes to their narrowest point. Several cars, rear-ended each other, were piled up in the middle of the road, their bodies twisted and deformed, their glass shattered everywhere. A bus stood blocking the entire road, like an iron wall, completely obstructing the way ahead.

The bus window was shattered, and it was pitch black inside; you couldn't see what was inside.

But He Yuanchao could smell it.

That sweet, fishy smell emanating from rotting flesh. There were at least seven or eight corpses on the bus—or rather, seven or eight things that had changed.

"Detour or charge straight through?" Alice asked in a low voice.

"Taking a detour takes too much time." He Yuanchao's gaze swept quickly between the bus and the buildings on both sides. "Crawl under the bus, then run. Don't linger."

"Under the car?" Nicolai frowned—his wrist was still aching.

"The bus chassis is about forty centimeters off the ground, enough to squeeze through."

He Yuanchao didn't explain much. He bent down and crawled sideways under the bus.

The ground was littered with broken glass and oil. The back of his bulletproof vest creaked against the metal parts under the car, but he moved quickly—emerging from the other side in less than five seconds.

Alice followed and crawled out.

Nicolai struggled a bit; his injured wrist prevented him from gaining proper leverage, but he gritted his teeth and made it through.

I just stood up.

There was a commotion inside the bus.

The sound of shards of glass sliding on the seat, and a low, muffled groan, like something was stuck in his throat.

"Never mind it. Let's go."

He Yuanchao grabbed Nicolai, who was trying to turn around, and the three of them sped up.

But the problems on this road don't just involve buses.

After passing the bus, about 100 meters ahead—at an intersection—a large number of red dots suddenly appeared on He Yuanchao's system radar.

Not just three or five.

There are thirty or forty of them.

They were surging in from the left side of the street at the intersection, swaying and wobbling like a gray flood pouring out of the alley.

He Yuanchao stopped.

Alice saw it too.

In the dim light of day, those figures crowded together at the street corner, some of them already on the main road.

"How much?" Alice asked.

"Thirty and above. And still increasing."

"Go around?"

"It's too late. They've already seen us."

The zombies' heads were turning this way. Their white eyes gleamed eerily in the darkness.

Several of them have already started to speed up—the kind of transition from a slow walk to a jog. Although their movements are still clumsy, at this distance, as long as they start running, they can reach you in less than a minute.

He Yuanchao made a decision.

He handed the shotgun to Alice.

"Take him first. Go down that alley on the right to Second Street, then run along the river towards City Hall."

Alice paused for a moment as she took the gun.

"And you?"

He Yuanchao did not answer.

He pulled a heavy, long object from the system space—pretending to be from the backpack behind his bulletproof vest.

Dark green.

Made of iron.

Two sturdy supporting legs.

A long ammunition belt hung down from the ammunition box, covered with gleaming 7.62mm NATO standard rounds.

M60 general purpose machine gun.

That old thing the US military has been using since the Vietnam War. It weighs nearly ten kilograms, and with the ammunition belt, it can weigh over fifteen kilograms. An ordinary person would have a hard time even aiming at it, let alone firing accurately.

But He Yuanchao was no ordinary person.

He placed the M60 on the undercarriage of an overturned car with both hands—the car was upside down, and the steel chassis formed a natural firing cover and support platform.

The spring chain has been straightened out.

Pull the bolt to load the gun.

"Click."

The metallic clang echoed crisply through the deathly silent street.

He Yuanchao lay prone behind the overturned vehicle, bracing the butt of his M60 rifle against his shoulder, his right index finger on the trigger.

Through a makeshift sight, he watched the gray tide rushing towards him a hundred meters away.

The one running the fastest was wearing a postman's uniform, its green work cap askew on its head, and the post office logo on its uniform was stained with dried black blood.

"You're in charge of clearing the way," He Yuanchao said to Alice, his voice as flat as if he were stating a technical detail. "I'll handle clearing the area."

"Take the alley. Get out of my shooting range within three minutes."

"Three minutes is enough."

Alice didn't hesitate. She grabbed the still-dazed Nicolai and rushed towards the alley on the right.

He Yuanchao's gaze returned to what was ahead.

Eighty meters.

Seventy meters.

The zombies were completely excited. The first few were almost jogging, and the ones behind them quickened their pace, surging forward as if pulled by some invisible rope.

Sixty meters.

He Yuanchao pulled the trigger with his index finger.

"Da da da da da—"

The roar of the M60 general-purpose machine gun echoed through the abandoned streets.

The sound was unlike any weapon he had ever used before—not the dull, single-shot roar of a shotgun, nor the crisp, rapid bursts of a pistol. The M60's sound was continuous, intense, like someone frantically pounding a tin drum with an iron rod.

The 7.62mm full-power rifle cartridges were ejected from the muzzle at a rate of over 500 rounds per minute, and the spent cartridge cases flew out of the ejection port like golden raindrops, clattering and falling to the ground.

The muzzle flashed in the night, like an angry little sun tied to an iron frame.

The barrage of comments swept over the group of zombies.

At this distance, the 7.62mm round is only effective against soft targets that are not armor-piercing; the effect can be described in one word: shattered.

A hit to the arm, and the arm flies off. A hit to the stomach, and a hole the size of a bowl appears. A hit to the head—and it's gone.

The first row of zombies was knocked down almost simultaneously.

The mailman zombie's hat, along with half of its head, was ripped off and tumbled several times in the air.

Following closely behind was a zombie dressed in a suit—probably an office worker in his previous life—with three holes punched through his chest, as if he had been hit three times in succession by invisible fists. He fell backward and landed on his companion behind him.

But the zombies that follow won't stop.

They charged forward, stepping over the corpses of their fallen comrades. Their madness, devoid of any sense of fear, transformed them into the most terrifying form of attack in the world—human wave tactics.

Although not human.

He Yuanchao's gun slowly swept across the horde of zombies.

He wasn't aiming for precise headshots—at this distance and density, precision was a waste of time. What he wanted was suppressive fire and clearing the path, tearing a few meters wide "no man's land" through the horde of zombies.

The M60's ammunition belts are being consumed at a rapid pace.

The first belt of ammunition, containing one hundred rounds, has been used up.

He Yuanchao changed into the second pair in less than three seconds.

"Da da da da da—"

Continue scanning.

Within a minute, at least twenty corpses lay on the road ahead. Black blood stained a large, shocking dark patch on the asphalt. The air was thick with the stench of burning gunpowder and the stench of evaporating zombie fluids.

Two minutes.

The density of the zombie horde has decreased significantly.

Although a few scattered creatures were still staggering forward, the oppressive feeling of that "tidal wave" had been completely dispelled by the machine gun fire.

He Yuanchao raised his head and glanced at the alley to his right.

Alice and Nicole had already disappeared into the depths of the alley.

three minutes.

Safe.

He Yuanchao put away the M60—the same old "pretend to stuff it into his backpack" maneuver—then flipped over the overturned car and ran at top speed toward the city hall along another route.

The street behind them was littered with bullet casings and bits of flesh.

The smoke and blood mingled together in the wind.

This city is dying.

But there are always people who are unwilling to die with it.