From the perspective of a professional meteorologist, this rain is actually not heavy at all. Although the dark sky is filled with thick clouds, it hasn’t turned into a torrential downpour. Fine, tiny droplets drift down from midair, slowly soaking the dry earth. They form a light gray curtain between heaven and earth, adding a faint haze to everything.

David Bolton uses the most vicious language almost every day, desperately cursing the gods who control the weather. Under this irresistible force of nature, both the field of vision for observation and the accuracy of bullets hitting their targets have been reduced by nearly a third.

It has been more than a week since they started guarding this half-old air-raid shelter. Aside from David Bolton and eight other soldiers who are regular army, the rest—over a hundred people—are all survivors who were lucky enough to escape death in this city.

Chapter 6: Holding the Line

On the map, Yiqian is just a small dot at the border between Sichuan and Yunnan provinces, marked with a hollow single-line symbol. However, this does not mean it is obscure. In the archives of the National Urban Management Center, Yiqian is actually a small city with a population of more than 300,000.

Maybe it’s because he never passed math in school! David Bolton has never had a clear concept of numbers. Hundreds or thousands—he can barely form a vague idea in his mind. As for tens of thousands, or even hundreds of thousands, he simply cannot imagine what a massive existence that is.

Other than the hundred or so people hiding in the air-raid shelter, nearly all the residents of Yiqian have died.

David Bolton doesn’t dare guarantee that his guess is completely correct. Maybe, in other corners of this city, there are still survivors who, like him, have managed to hide by sheer luck.

Thinking of this, he couldn’t help but shiver. His left hand instinctively hugged the assault rifle in his arms tighter, while his right hand reached into his mud-stained pocket, struggling to pull out a crumpled pack of “Honghe” cigarettes.

This was a military ration. When they set out, he thought the so-called rescue mission was just for show, just a drill. So David Bolton only casually brought two packs. He never expected to be trapped here, and with all supplies cut off, even smoking had become a rare luxury.

He took a deep drag of the lit cigarette, letting the thick smoke linger in his lungs for a long time. Only when his face turned purplish-red from lack of oxygen did he reluctantly exhale the nicotine-laden smoke, enveloping himself completely in it.

Even though it was just a moment of enjoyment, David Bolton did not relax his vigilance. His eyes never left the triangular intersection facing him. After several days, he had memorized every detail of the entire block. Every stone, every mud pit, or even a piece of paper suddenly drifting down would catch his attention.

In the middle of the street stood a toppled bicycle. Right next to the triangular frame of the bike, there was a human head.

That was Old Walker’s head.

He was David Bolton’s squad leader, a volunteer soldier who enlisted in 2010. He was a very kind person, not tall, and whenever he smiled, he always showed a row of very white teeth.

When the distress call came in, the 705th Infantry Regiment rushed into Yiqian at top speed. After entering the city, David Bolton saw for the first time a terrifying scene that he thought could only exist in movies.

Countless pitch-black mutants surged in from every street. They brandished long, sharp bone blades, hunting down the fleeing, screaming refugees. With every swing, a living life was taken. Those eyes, glowing blood-red even in daylight, were so terrifying and cruel.

The panicked crowd broke through the army’s defensive line, and the mutants following close behind poured in as well. The unprepared soldiers had no time to react before their bodies were pierced by virus-covered bone blades.

David Bolton saw with his own eyes: in order to protect two girls who were running so hard their faces turned pale, the burly regimental commander drew his dagger and charged at several mutants who were already very close, roaring in anger—only to be torn to pieces on the spot.

From beginning to end, the rescued girls never even glanced at the commander. It was as if being saved at the cost of someone’s life was something they took for granted.

Old Walker was decapitated by an attacker who suddenly appeared from behind. As for his body, it had already disappeared.

Under the guidance of a policeman, David Bolton and a few soldiers protected more than a hundred civilians as they rushed into the nearest air-raid shelter. Through the observation hole set in the ground, he saw a scene that chilled him to the bone.

All those who had been killed, whether soldiers or civilians, stood up again a few hours later. Their muscles were as strong as if they had been injected with hormones, their skin turned pitch black, and what should have been five fingers on their right hand had become a sharp bone blade about a meter long.

It seemed to be some unknown virus. At this rate of transmission, there would never be any living residents left in Yiqian.

Realizing this, David Bolton gave up all hope of breaking out.

The rain was still falling.