"Everyone, grab your weapons! Take a loaded magazine from the white box on the counter—**this is not a drill!**" Zhang Xiaowen shouted. Eleven students froze for a heartbeat before scrambling toward the counter, their breaths quickening. The sudden shift from training to real danger tightened chests and frayed nerves.
Zhang checked her PDW, chambered a round, and adjusted her tactical helmet. She'd kept her full combat gear on since leaving the city—its weight a psychological armor. As she ran toward the gate, she holstered her pistol, ready for quick draws.
By the time they reached the entrance, six concrete barriers blocked the road—a makeshift defense hauled by students earlier. "Line up! Crouch and aim!" Zhang barked.
Twelve students fumbled into position, assault rifles trembling in their hands. They looked absurd in their sportswear, more like cosplayers than soldiers. Zhang grimaced. *They should be cramming for exams, not holding military-grade guns.*
"Switch to semi-auto. **Keep your fingers off the triggers!**" she ordered, echoing the Cube's earlier warning. A misfire here could slaughter half the team.
Teacher He rushed over with reinforcements. "Xiaowen! Why the guns? If they're survivors, let them in! We need unity—"
"Sometimes," Zhang cut in coldly, "humans are worse than zombies."
The students exchanged confused glances. They hadn't seen the horrors she had—the girl assaulted by five men in a shattered apartment, the child leaping to her death…
Headlights pierced the dusk. A battered silver van rolled into view, its bumper dangling and one headlight shattered. The Cube's scan flashed on Zhang's visor: *Five occupants. One unconscious in the back. Vital signs: critical.*
"Don't let them near!" the Cube hissed through her earpiece.
Inside the van, four men leered at the students. "Look at all those fresh chicks!" a crew-cut thug grinned. "And that soldier babe in the middle… *prime cut*."
"Shut it," growled Dong-ge, their leader. His eyes locked onto Zhang. "She's armed. Play nice… for now."
The van stopped at the barriers. Four men stepped out, hands raised in mock surrender. "We're just hungry survivors!" Crew-Cut called. "Let us in, yeah?"
Zhang's PDW stayed leveled. "Five of you. Bring out the one in the back."
Dong-ge's smile faltered. "Back? There's no one—"
"Bullshit." Zhang's visor highlighted the van's rear—a heat signature curled fetal on the floor. "Last chance."
The thugs exchanged glances. Crew-Cut muttered, "Screw this. Let's rush 'em—"
***CRACK!***
A warning shot from Zhang's PDW tore through the van's hood. Students flinched; the thugs froze.
"Next one goes through your skull," Zhang said flatly. "Show me the fifth person. **Now.**"
Dong-ge's hand twitched toward his waistband—a knife gleamed. The Cube's roof-mounted gun whirred to life, laser sights painting red dots on four foreheads.
"Or," the Cube's synthetic voice boomed from nowhere, "we skip the foreplay and bury you here."
Silence.
Then, from the van's shadows—a whimper.