The search through the pile of corpses didn't last too long. About ten minutes into the countdown, all players successfully found a usable lasgun for themselves.
Most of these weapons were battle-damaged, each with its own unique 'personality': some lacked a stock, making shouldering the weapon particularly awkward; others had shells covered in scratches and dents, as if they could fall apart at any moment; and some had crooked sights, clearly requiring intuitive aiming. Fortunately, their system panels all displayed Quality: Worn, so at least there was no risk of a barrel explosion.
While picking weapons, two or three players seemed to recall the famous meme from the Warhammer world — 'The Emperor's loyal melee.' They took a little extra time, specifically detaching bayonets from corpses and attaching them to the muzzles of their newly acquired lasguns. Robert was one of them; he felt that in such a chaotic battlefield, having an extra preparation was always a good thing.
The players, holding their 'new equipment,' instinctively lined up in front of Commissar Walter, as if waiting for inspection.
Walter looked at them, first Stunned for a moment, then veins bulged on his forehead, and he let out a roar: "What are you all standing in front of me for?! Get to cover! Do you want to be living targets?!"
Startled by the shout, the players realized that this was not some high school military training exercise. They scattered, each searching for a place to save their lives.
A few hid behind a collapsed section of a prefabricated wall, while more jumped directly into the deeper-looking shell craters and trenches, only showing their heads and half a gun barrel.
Just as all the players had prepared and were holding their breath, the Cultists' attack arrived right on cue.
First, the sound.
A harsh, distorted horn blast came from afar, as if to tear eardrums. Immediately after, at the edge of the horizon, thousands of voices converged into a hair-raising torrent of noise — it was frenzied prayer, bloodthirsty war cries, and hymns dedicated to the dark Gods.
Then, they appeared.
Like an ant colony, countless ragged figures surged from the distant ruins and pervasive smoke. Wielding industrial cleavers, spiked steel pipes, and various homemade weapons, their faces contorted with fanatical expressions, they trampled over their companions' corpses, rushing recklessly towards the Astra Militarum's positions.
"Open fire! Free fire!"
Commissar Walter blew a sharp whistle, and the auto-cannons and heavy bolters on the position roared first, plowing bloody paths through the tide of cultists. But the gaps were quickly filled by the subsequent flow of people, as if endless.
The players were completely awestruck by this world-shattering momentum. They fumbled to peek out, pulling triggers at the dense sea of people. Red laser beams shot haphazardly into the enemy crowd, occasionally hitting one or two targets, but more often hitting nothing or being blocked by the bodies in front.
"Bang!" "Bang!"
Several players, who were only focused on unleashing firepower, were kicked hard in the backside. Commissar Walter walked behind them with a dark expression, scolding: "Conserve ammunition! Burst fire! Do you want your gun barrels to overheat and turn into useless sticks?!"
Just then, a soldier in a PDF uniform, apparently a conscript temporarily pulled onto the battlefield, broke down mentally after witnessing the hellish scene. He screamed, threw down his weapon, and tried to flee to the rear.
"Bang!"
A crisp bolter shot. The deserter's head exploded like a watermelon, and his headless body stumbled forward two steps before falling to the ground.
Commissar Walter expressionlessly holstered his smoking bolt pistol, his cold gaze sweeping over everyone on the position, including the stunned players.
"Daaamn that's gruesome!" shouted a player.
"Is this what a Commissar's daily life is like..." a player muttered softly in the squad channel. Beyond their shock, they also realized the extent to which the war on Perditia had deteriorated.
After the initial shock and fear, the players gradually entered a mechanical cycle: aim, short burst fire, find the next target, then aim again. They intuitively felt that their meager firepower was truly a drop in the ocean against the constantly surging tide of people.
Just then, Robert, hiding in a shell crater, suddenly felt a regular, slight vibration from the ground beneath his feet. He frowned, listened intently, and could even hear 'rustling' digging sounds from deep within the earth.
He was about to shout a warning, but it was too late.
"Boom! Boom! Boom!"
Inside the position, several spots on the ground suddenly exploded from below! Dirt and rubble flew everywhere, and mud-covered cultists emerged like moles from the dug tunnels, instantly rushing into the position, face to face with the players.
The sense of security from long-range shooting was gone, and the battlefield instantly turned into close-quarters combat.
The ogryn player, who had struggled to land a few shots, now let out an excited roar. He threw away the lasgun that looked like a toy in his hands, directly swinging his fists, thicker than other people's thighs, and with one punch, caved in the chest of a pouncing cultist.
And for Robert and the other players who had prepared bayonets in advance, this choice seemed incredibly wise at this moment.
A Cultist shrieked, brandishing a rusty cleaver as he charged at Robert. With adrenaline surging, Robert, almost instinctively, thrust his lasgun forward.
"Pfft!"
The sharp bayonet plunged unimpeded into the cultist's chest and abdomen. However, the anticipated scene of the enemy falling did not occur. The cultist seemed to feel no pain; he looked down at the bayonet stuck in his body, a more bizarre and fanatical smile appearing on his face, making incomprehensible gurgling sounds, and actually pushed forward against the bayonet, reaching out his hands to grab Robert's neck!
Icy fear instantly gripped Robert's heart. He tried to pull the gun back, but found the bayonet stuck fast by the opponent's muscles and bones.
Just at this critical moment, an NPC veteran with a long scar on his face next to him roared: "New recruit, don't just frakking stand there!" He turned sideways, and with a precise burst from his lasgun, instantly blew off the cultist's head.
Warm blood and brain matter splattered all over Robert's face. He finally came to his senses, gasping for breath, and forcefully pulled the bayonet out of the corpse.
The situation on the other side was even more tragic. A player with the ID 'Ima B. Quick' was cornered by a cultist. In a panic, he completely forgot Commissar Walter's previous warning, frantically pulling the trigger at the enemy right in front of him.
The laser beam burned a large hole through the cultist's body at point-blank range, but his lasgun also emitted a dangerous hum from overloaded energy.
"Boom!"
With a dull thud, the overwhelmed lasgun exploded. The overloaded energy core transformed into a small plasma flame, instantly engulfing both 'Ima B. Quick' and the cultist. After the light dissipated, only two charred human outlines and a melted gun barrel remained.
In contrast, the ogryn's side was practically a one-sided slaughter. He was like a living meat grinder; any cultist who approached him was either punched away or grabbed by the limbs and torn apart like a ragdoll. His presence greatly alleviated the pressure on the torn frontline.
After a bloody struggle, as Commissar Walter sliced the last cultist climbing out of the tunnel in half with his chainsword, this sudden internal raid finally ended.
The position was filled with the pungent smell of ozone and burnt meat. The players, still shaken, tallied the results. In this wave of attacks, only one player, 'Ima B. Quick,' died, taking an enemy with him.
Robert walked over to the charred corpse. Out of curiosity, he extended his bayonet and gently prodded the unrecognizable body.
The moment the blade touched the corpse, Robert's vision suddenly blurred, as if the game screen was lagging and dropping frames.
The next second, something incredible happened.
The charred corpse seemed to have been rewound; the melted flesh and equipment rapidly reassembled. A second later, 'Ima B. Quick' appeared perfectly intact in his original spot. He suddenly sat up, gasping for breath, his face still showing signs of lingering shock.
"You revived his ass!"
"Holy crap, that was so f***ing exciting!"
The surrounding players immediately gathered around, curiously examining their 'resurrected' companion.
"Hey, buddy, how do you feel?"
"What's the death penalty? Losing equipment?"
'Ima B. Quick' was still shaken. He brought up the system log and took a look, his expression turning a bit strange: "Death penalty... it says all NPC relationships are reinitialized, and current faction merits are reset to zero..."
"This game didn't even show an experience bar when we just killed monsters, so could these be the only two things to grind?" Robert realized the seriousness of the situation. "Then wouldn't this be starting over? Good thing your equipment is still on you; there's no item drop upon death."
"Not necessarily," another player analyzed. "Maybe there will be fixed resurrection points later, and after we resurrect, we'll have to run a long way to strip equipment from our own corpses. You see, isn't 'Project Zomboid' like that?"
"That makes sense!" Everyone nodded in agreement. "Hope this game developer can be a decent person, have some conscience."
Their discussion didn't last long, as Commissar Walter's cold voice rang out again, interrupting their post-disaster relief.
"What are you all still standing around for?! Block these holes! Prepare for the next wave of attack!"