Due to the damage the virus causes to the central nervous system, zombies have almost no visual ability. As a compensation for their perception of the outside world, their hearing and sense of smell have become especially acute. They move slowly and clumsily, yet feel no pain, and their craving for food greatly increases their strength. The only way to kill them is to destroy the brain—which, though it has shrunk by a third, still controls the entire body.

　　Henry Sutton can use terrain, distance, and scent to deal with isolated infected individuals. But he cannot handle more than two zombies at once, let alone a dense horde.

　　Fresh flesh is an irresistible temptation for zombies. No one knows how long a horde will continue feeding. He must retrieve the equipment he had sent ahead as quickly as possible. Every minute of delay multiplies the chances of something going wrong.

　　Fortunately, the horde did not notice Henry Sutton sneaking in the shadows. Following the fluorescent arrows on the wall and the blueprints he had memorized in his mind, he quickly reached the end of the third basement level of the parking garage and entered the storage room that matched his memory.

　　This was just an open area of about thirty square meters, with no door. Because the space between the pillars and pipes on both sides was too narrow, it could only be used to store heavy and worthless packing boxes and other miscellaneous items.

　　Maintaining a balanced and agile pace, the instant he stepped into the storage room, Henry Sutton immediately felt several gazes fall upon him. Accompanying them was a faint killing intent—and fear.

Chapter 2 Living People

　　Behind a heavy wooden crate, two men and two women were hiding.

　　"Who... who are you?"

　　The first to speak was a middle-aged man of about thirty. He was thin, his dark trousers sagged from his hips, his sleeves were rolled high, and the buttons at the collar of his white shirt were undone, with a large patch of oil stain smeared across his chest from who knows where. He gripped a small iron hammer in his hand, his voice low and his speech rapid, harsh in tone, but his body was shaking violently as if out of control.

　　Every muscle in Henry Sutton's body was already tensed; at the slightest change, he would immediately swing his axe in a ruthless counterattack. He glanced at the man warily and saw that none of them were infected by the virus, nor did they have any bite or scratch wounds on their bodies.

　　"Same as you, just trying to survive."

　　After saying this, he quickly slipped past the man and entered the inner part of the storage room.

　　In the corner near the wall was an old, dust-covered wooden box. It was small, with a volume of only about one cubic meter, and its surface was covered with a layer of dirty, tattered burlap. The camouflage, combined with the dim light in the storage room, meant that the refugees hiding here had not noticed it—or perhaps simply had no interest in it.

　　Henry Sutton's direct and forceful entry made the middle-aged man's face immediately darken. However, the moment his gaze landed on the fire axe in Henry Sutton's hand—caked with blood, flesh, and human hair, exuding a strong aura of blood and slaughter—the man's eye twitched involuntarily, his mouth opened, but he forcibly swallowed the angry rebuke that had risen to his throat.

　　Henry Sutton paid no attention to the subtle change in the man's expression. The old wooden box in the corner had his full attention. When he saw that the iron lock tightly securing the lid was still intact, with no signs of being pried or damaged, the heart that had been hanging in suspense for hours finally began to settle.

　　"Clang——"

　　The steel axe, not exactly sharp but heavy enough, smashed the lock. Henry Sutton squatted down, forcefully lifted the lid, and one by one, the items he had personally placed inside appeared before his eyes.

　　This was the first box he had sent from fifty-six years in the future.

　　The inside of the box was divided into three compartments. In the first, Henry Sutton picked up a .50 caliber M500 revolver, expertly spun the loaded cylinder, snapped it shut with a "click," and quickly holstered it at his waist.

　　Interdimensional transmission could encounter unpredictable dangers at any time. Henry Sutton remembered clearly—besides the handgun, he had packed a full two hundred rounds of ammunition in the box. Now, only sixteen remained; the rest had turned into a thick layer of grayish-yellow powder at the bottom.

　　He did not sigh or get angry. He simply grabbed a rubber tourniquet from the well-preserved second compartment, rolled up his left sleeve, and took out a metal box marked with a red cross. Opening it... Although he had mentally prepared himself for the loss of most of the bullets during transmission, when he saw the empty foam slots inside the box, Henry Sutton still couldn't help but feel the urge to curse.

　　Fortunately, at the end of the metal box, there was still a syringe wrapped in a rubber tube. Under the dim light, he could see a pale blue liquid swirling inside.

　　Henry Sutton quickly calmed down. He grabbed the syringe from the box as fast as he could, drew the liquid from the tube, and plunged the needle into the slightly bulging blue vein on his left arm. Only after the blue liquid was fully injected into his body did his long-tense nerves finally relax, and he let out a long breath.