"Run!"
At the panicked shout, the rest of the group who had entered the shopping center felt a jolt of terror. Looking down at the sleeping mats where people should have been, they saw only piles of debris. In an instant, they realized what had happened. Without hesitation, they turned and sprinted after Balk toward the exit.
—Boom! Boom!
But just as Balk, who was in the lead, was about to re-enter the corridor, two massive explosions erupted from both sides. Smoke and dust billowed into the air as the debris stacked along the walls collapsed inward, completely blocking the only escape route.
But Balk wasn't about to give up. These were just obstacles. With a quick leap and the right footing, he could still get through.
—Clink!
"Damn it! It's on fire!"
But before he could act, he heard the shattering of glass behind him, followed by screams of terror.
Balk turned. A sharp smell of gasoline flooded his nose. In the central open area, the piles of debris were now engulfed in roaring flames. In an instant, all of them were surrounded by fire.
Just from that brief moment of distraction, a flaming bottle came flying from above. Before Balk could react, it smashed into the pile of debris he was about to climb. The firelight illuminated the raw fear on his face.
Cold sweat dripped from his forehead. His legs gave out. He collapsed to the ground, staring blankly at the wall of fire. If he had climbed up just seconds earlier, it wouldn't just be the debris burning—it would've been him.
"They're upstairs! Shoot!"
With the only escape route sealed, the group scattered like headless chickens. Someone shouted:
"They're on the upper floor! Open fire!"
Immediately, several raised their weapons and began spraying bullets wildly toward the upper levels of the mall.
—Bang! Bang! Bang!
—Rat-tat-tat!
In an instant, the shopping center erupted with gunfire, mixed with panicked screams. Even though they hadn't seen the enemy yet, everyone knew they were trapped. Even if the enemy never showed, they would eventually suffocate from the smoke.
Bullets shattered the glass panels beneath the stair railings, sending shards raining down from above. The sharp fragments scattered across the floor, slicing open faces and arms of those nearby.
—Clink… clink…
One by one, their rifles began making the metallic sound of empty magazines.
"Stop shooting! They're trying to make us waste all our ammo!"
As time passed, a few of the smarter ones regained their senses and began shouting, warning the others.
But just as one of them opened his mouth, a Molotov cocktail came flying down from above, engulfing a person in flames, silencing his warning in a blaze of fire.
"Help me! Please, help me!"
Unimaginable pain flooded the minds of those set on fire. Like madmen, they screamed in agony, stumbling toward their comrades, grabbing them, begging for salvation.
But this only caused more deaths. A few, unable to bear it, pulled out their still-loaded pistols and shot their burning comrades to end their suffering.
After the first Molotov, more followed. Paf! Paf! Paf! They smashed onto the central floor, igniting new patches of fire wherever they landed.
"Watch out! Dodge!"
But these survivors, after years of navigating infected cities, overcame their initial panic. Seeing the bombs, they began to look upward and dodge with agility.
However, as more and more incendiary devices rained down, the space to dodge shrank. The smoke grew thicker. Some were already starting to lose consciousness.
Everyone knew: if they didn't escape soon, they would all die here.
"Damn it!"
A bald, obese man cursed, threw down his empty rifle, and reached into his jacket. To everyone's shock, he pulled out two grenades.
He stared at them, his face twisted with regret. These were supposed to be his last resort, saved for when the enemy revealed themselves. But now, he had no choice.
He quickly scanned the area and locked onto an escape route—the escalator to the second floor!
He yanked the pin from one grenade and hurled it toward the escalator, where flames partially blocked the path.
—Boom!
The grenade exploded among the burning debris. The blast sent fragments flying, temporarily clearing the way. Flames still flickered, but a path was now visible.
"Follow me!"
The fat man roared, ran to a sleeping mat not yet on fire, grabbed several blankets, layered them together, and charged toward the escalator like a raging bull.
Those who saw him, inspired by his bravery and terrified by the encroaching fire, didn't hesitate—they followed.
"Ah—!"
Swinging the blanket like a shield, the man swept flaming debris aside, carving a path through the inferno.
Even as their shoes and soles burned underfoot, compared to death, the pain was nothing.
He threw the thick blanket over the last flaming wooden crate, smothering the flames momentarily. In that moment of life-or-death instinct, the fat man became surprisingly agile. In seconds, he vaulted over the obstacle.
Behind him, others followed. One by one, they jumped. But after three or four people, the blanket began to heat up rapidly. Soon, it would ignite, cutting off the escape for the rest.
Those at the back weren't fools. They knew once the blanket burned, they'd pay a deadly price. They pushed forward with desperate force.
One man, about to climb over, was violently yanked down by another, crashing to the ground—becoming a stepping stone for the rest.
"Get out of my way!"
As the crowd surged forward, a familiar roar echoed from behind.
But no one listened. Everyone was fighting for survival. No one would stop.
Seeing he was ignored, Balk's face turned purple with rage. Without mercy, he raised his rifle and opened fire on those blocking his path.
Minutes earlier, he'd been paralyzed with fear, unable to react even as Molotovs fell.
But fortune favored him. Not a single bottle had landed near him. His rifle was still fully loaded.
Seeing everyone rushing in one direction, he grabbed his weapon and charged after them.
—Rat-tat-tat!
Bullets sprayed from the barrel, piercing the backs of those fleeing. Holes opened in their bodies, blood spraying in crimson arcs.
In seconds, the dozen people blocking Balk's path lay dead on the ground.
With the path cleared, Balk smirked with his signature cruelty. He sprinted forward and, before the blanket fully ignited and under the terrified stares of the others, vaulted over the obstacle.
Seeing their fearful eyes, Balk's grin widened. As if the trembling coward from moments ago wasn't him. He strode up to them and growled:
"What are you waiting for? Want to stay here and burn to death?"
Without another word, he shoved them aside and ran alone toward the escalator.
The others stood frozen, staring at the burning corpses behind them. Fear filled every eye.
In their survivor group, even with internal conflicts, they never killed their own. It wasn't just about losing strength—it shattered trust within the group.
But Balk had just murdered two-thirds of their combat force. Even if it was self-preservation, didn't he understand there was still a real enemy out there?
As they hesitated, Balk was already sprinting up the escalator, rifle ready, scanning the surroundings. He knew what they were thinking. But he didn't care. Let others die—better them than him.
Now, he only thought of escape. Once back at camp, he'd load a truck with food and supplies and flee far away.
He felt no desire for revenge. No one knew the camp's situation better than him. They had numbers, but just untrained civilians. They stood no chance against these professional soldiers.
—Ding!
As he focused on the second floor, alert for any enemy movement, he suddenly felt his foot catch on something. Then, a faint click.
Instinctively, he looked down. In the firelight, a snapped steel wire lay at his feet.
Slowly, he raised his head. Ahead of him, in the hallway of the second floor, row after row of homemade pipe bombs were connected to the wire he had just broken.
His eyes filled with utter despair.
"Fuck!"