The Black River Purge
The refugee camp at Black River Town was an inferno. Flames clawed at the night sky, their hungry roar punctuated by the crack of gunfire and the wailing of women and children.
Stumbling through the chaos, Xiao Ke was swept along in a human tide of refugees. They were being herded out of the camp by hulking, armed off-roaders and ranks of fully-equipped Imperial soldiers.
"Halt!"
The command boomed from atop one of the trucks. A Centurion, his face a cold, indifferent mask under a black Imperial uniform, stared down at the terrified crowd. The order was for everyone: his own soldiers and the hundreds of refugees, scavengers, and drifters they had just flushed out of the camp.
"Nobody moves! Stay right where you are! Anyone who disobeys dies!" his captains echoed, their voices cutting through the panic. The crowd of several hundred refugees froze on the barren plains, trembling.
Xiao Ke, just one face among the desperate, scanned the perimeter. Imperial soldiers had them surrounded. In the distance, the camp that had been their home was now a funeral pyre, the flames consuming everything. A knot of dread tightened in his stomach. He had a very bad feeling about this.
A month ago, a zombie virus had torn through the camp. Dozens had been infected, their humanity stripped away as they turned. These soldiers, from the infamous Black Shark Legion, had been dispatched to "contain" the outbreak.
Xiao Ke knew exactly what the Empire's containment protocol was for refugee camps with a zombie problem. It was always brutal, always final: complete annihilation. No witnesses, no survivors, no chance of the virus spreading.
His fears were confirmed when the Centurion on the truck barked a new, bizarre order: "Start digging. With your bare hands."
Confusion rippled through the refugees. Digging? Here? What for? Maybe to bury the bodies of the infected?
As strange as it was, no one dared to disobey. The Centurion's chilling authority, backed by the rifles of the soldiers surrounding them, was absolute. Hundreds of people dropped to their knees and began clawing at the earth. Luckily, the soil was soft and dark, and many hands made for quick work. Within half an hour, exhausted and filthy, they had carved a massive, shallow grave—about half a man deep.
One of the refugees called out, "Sir, we've… we've finished the pit, just like you asked."
A cruel smirk played on the Centurion's lips. "Excellent. Now, everyone get in and stand still. This will all be over soon."
The words hung in the air. For a moment, there was just stunned silence. Most were still trying to process the command, but for some, the horrifying realization dawned. Their faces went pale with terror. This pit wasn't for the zombies. It was for them.
The Centurion made it official, his voice devoid of any emotion as he addressed his troops. "Alright, men, listen up. You are now authorized for free fire. Kill every refugee here. I repeat: kill them all. Old, young, men, women—I want no one left standing."
A collective cry of pure anguish erupted from the crowd.
Even the Imperial soldiers seemed shocked. One of the captains spoke up, his voice shaking slightly. "Sir… they look fine. They don't seem infected."
"And how would you know?" the Centurion shot back coldly. "We're only five hundred kilometers from Vermilion Bird City, the provincial capital. Fifty million people live there. Can you imagine the consequences if this plague reaches them? Who would take responsibility for that? The best solution would be to ship them to a labor mine and work them to death, but we have other missions. This cleanup is just a detour, a loose end to tie up. We don't have time to screen for potential carriers. The most efficient solution is to kill them all and burn everything to the ground. Am I clear?"
"Yes, sir. Understood," the men mumbled.
They might have understood the logic, and stories of the Empire "cleansing" infected camps were common enough. But for these particular soldiers, it was their first time carrying out such an order. You could see the hesitation, the struggle to point a gun at terrified people who were only potentially sick and pull the trigger.
The Centurion's patience was wearing thin. "Good," he snapped. "That's the last explanation you'll get. Anyone who questions my command again will be shot for insubordination. Now, raise your weapons… and fire!"
The captains reluctantly relayed the order. "Ready weapons!"
A metallic rattle echoed across the plain as the soldiers raised their rifles, aiming into the crowd. But their movements were stiff, uncertain. They hadn't committed.
The refugees were screaming now, a desperate, hopeless sound.
For Xiao Ke, it was a moment of absolute clarity. Death was coming. His only chance, however slim, was to fight back. He took a deep breath and roared, "We're not zombies! We're not sick! They're going to murder us! Fight back! If you want to live, you have to run!"
No one wanted to just stand there and be executed. The thought of a desperate breakout had crossed many minds, but fear had paralyzed them. Xiao Ke's cry was the spark that ignited the tinderbox of their survival instinct. A unified roar of defiance went up. The crowd exploded. Some charged headfirst at the line of soldiers, while others scattered in every direction, running for their lives.
"Open fire!"
The world erupted in gunfire. In an instant, over a hundred refugees were cut down. A few managed to reach the soldiers, grappling with them in a frantic, hand-to-hand struggle. But an unarmed civilian is no match for a trained Imperial soldier. They were dispatched quickly and brutally.
The chaos, however, worked to the fugitives' advantage. The soldiers were afraid of hitting their own men, preventing them from spraying bullets wildly. In the confusion, a few dozen people, including Xiao Ke, broke through the perimeter and were now sprinting across the open wilderness.
"Dammit!" the Centurion spat. Seeing Xiao Ke and the others escaping, he swung himself behind the heavy machine gun mounted on the truck's roof. He swiveled the barrel toward the fleeing figures and let loose a deafening volley.
The group of runners, now five or six hundred meters out, was mowed down. The Centurion let go of the trigger, a satisfied sneer on his face.
But then, one of the fallen figures stirred. Incredibly, the man scrambled back to his feet and took off running again.
It was Xiao Ke. The moment he'd heard the machine gun open up, he had instinctively dropped to the ground. The instant it stopped, he was up and moving. He had already put eight hundred meters between himself and the soldiers. At that distance, hitting a moving target with a machine gun was more luck than skill.
"Clever little rabbit," the Centurion growled. He held out a hand, and a nearby soldier, anticipating the command, handed over his sniper rifle.
The Centurion stood tall, bracing the rifle against his shoulder. He sighted down the scope, tracking the zigzagging figure of Xiao Ke in the distance. This Imperial-issue rifle was most accurate within a thousand meters. The crosshairs danced with Xiao Ke's desperate movements before finally locking onto his back. "Time to show you some real skill," the Centurion murmured. "Now… lie down."
As the last word left his lips, he squeezed the trigger. The rifle kicked, and with a sharp crack, the bullet tore through the air, streaking across the plain toward Xiao Ke.