After clearing the streets, Zhang Xiaowen's team began sweeping buildings. The visor's scanning function made pinpointing zombies effortless, but for the rookies, every room felt like a deadly game of hide-and-seek.
*Creak—*
The Cube rolled into an electronics store, transforming mid-stride. Shelves of outdated gadgets greeted it—bulky TVs, flip phones, and razors coated in dust. "TVs, phones, computers… barely enough metal here to make a paperclip," it muttered, crushing a landline underfoot.
Energy tendrils snaked from its chassis, dissolving circuit boards into metallic slurry. A zombie in a gold chain stumbled from the backroom, its shoulder gnawed to bone.
"Hey, I'm trashing your inventory. Complaints? Didn't think so." The Cube tossed a gutted smartphone at the zombie's face.
The creature blinked milky eyes, sniffed the air, and turned toward the exit.
*Bang!*
A bullet from outside dropped it mid-step. The Cube spun toward the gunshot's source—Zhang's panicked voice crackled through its comms.
"*Cube—get here now!*"
——
The schoolyard was a nightmare frozen in time.
Small figures shuffled across the soccer field—first graders in tattered uniforms, their eyes clouded, tiny hands curled into claws. A teacher-zombie in a bloodstained blazer herded them mindlessly.
Zhang's rifle trembled. "There's… over a hundred. *Children.*"
The Cube's scan confirmed: 137 heat signatures, all under four feet tall. No survivors. "Options: Fire. But gasoline's scarce. Guns? We'd need a firing squad."
"*We can't just—*"
"Priorities." The Cube cut her off coldly. "Load supplies. Medicines. Tools. Return later with flamethrowers."
——
Back in town, the team ransacked stores with manic efficiency. Bags of rice, cans of pickles, antibiotics—everything went into the truck. Fatty Wang hefted a sack of flour, sweat mixing with tears. "Why'd it have to be a *school*…"
Gao Dong tossed a box of bandages into the container. "Focus. These kids… they're gone. We're not."
At dusk, the truck rumbled back toward the resort, its cargo bed overflowing. The Cube rode shotgun, sensors locked on the shrinking school silhouette.
*Calculating thermal weak points…* it mused. *If we reroute the solar array's energy, perhaps a concentrated laser—*
Zhang's fist slammed the dashboard. "*Damn it!*" The Cube stayed silent. Some equations had no clean solutions—just survival, etched in ash and regret.