"Noooo!"
Seeing his comrade die, another man from the group roared with bloodshot eyes and ran toward the car parked ahead, trying to grab the weapon from the opposing side.
"Huh?"
Seeing the man running wildly, the soldier in front frowned slightly but didn't care. He moved the weapon in his hands and fired.
But the moment he pulled the trigger, aside from the man who collapsed lifeless to the ground, the others who were still alive suddenly charged forward.
"Damn bastards, do you really think this will make a difference?"
Although the soldiers were slaughtering a large number of enemies, not all of them were firing since that would attract too much attention—they remained on alert in case any new enemies appeared.
Upon seeing this situation, the soldier scoffed and put away the weapon in his hand without hesitation, knowing it wasn't worth wasting ammunition on these people.
Drawing his machete, he slashed at a heavier man who had rushed ahead more quickly.
The larger man dodged to the side with ease, then grabbed the soldier's arm—the one holding the machete—and shouted, "I got him, hurry!"
Seeing this, the rest of the group rushed forward. One of the young women grabbed a pistol and aimed it at the soldier's head, intending to kill him with a single shot, but her comrade's body was moving back and forth in front of her, and she hesitated to pull the trigger.
Looking at the crowd that was still alive, the soldier—who was being held tightly by one arm—still had one hand free, so he didn't panic at all. With that hand, he grabbed the neck of one of the charging men and kicked him.
Then he grabbed the man in his hand, slammed him hard, and struck the heavier man clinging to his arm, throwing both to the ground.
The survivors, who were used to fighting with melee weapons, looked completely helpless against the soldier, who clearly had far more combat experience.
Still wearing the helmet that covered his face, the soldier coldly stared at the survivors struggling on the ground and spoke in a deep voice, machete in hand: "You murderous bastards… welcome to the end of the world."
Clang! Slash!
Swinging his machete, the soldier cut down several enemies while standing in front of the car, protecting the civilians. But before he could finish them all off, a nimble figure suddenly leaped from the side of the car and crashed into him with force.
Taken by surprise, the soldier staggered backward, but quickly regained his balance.
Immediately afterward, another figure on the ground punched the soldier in the face. Although he was wearing a mask, the hit made him dizzy for a moment.
When the second punch came, the soldier grabbed the attacker's fist and slammed it into his stomach with force. Strangely, none of the survivors he had saved moved—as if frozen, unsure of what to do.
Seeing the man kneeling on the ground, holding his stomach in pain, the soldier reached out and grabbed the hair of the man who had tackled him, turning his face toward his own and said coldly, "A dead man's attempt..."
While saying that, the soldier looked at the woman still standing in the field, trembling with a weapon, and said: "Right now, there's a sniper aiming at your head, watching you. If you pull that trigger, you'll be dead in seconds, and the last thing you'll feel will be warm blood pouring from your skull."
The woman seemed unable to bear the pressure. Her hands and legs continued trembling until finally, the gun dropped to the ground. She collapsed, covering her face and sobbing bitterly.
"Good. We need to ask you a few questions."
Throwing the man with the hair to the ground, the soldier looked at the woman. Then, ignoring her crying on the ground, he picked up a shotgun, grabbed some shells, prepared to reload, and waited for the man behind him to remind everyone of what was coming.
But as he pulled out the ammunition, he suddenly realized that all of these people's comrades were already dead—and occasional distant gunshots could still be heard.
The soldier frowned slightly, loaded the shells into the chamber, slammed it shut, and squinted toward where the sound had come from.
Soon, deep within the dense alley to his side, he saw a figure slowly walking toward him.
The soldier removed his helmet, revealing his face—it was none other than Morgan, who wore a cold expression. Seeing someone approach, Morgan sighed with relief, gestured for them to check the people behind him, and said, "Why did it take you so long to get here? Quick, check their bodies. We don't know if they're real survivors or defectors from the enemy."
But the figure didn't seem to hear him and kept walking calmly, unhurried.
Morgan instantly felt something was wrong. He instinctively raised the shotgun in his hand and shouted, "Who are you?"
"Morgan, the enemy is right behind you."
The figure came closer, slowly revealing himself. He was a young man around twenty-five years old, holding a rifle, his clothes stained with blood, staring calmly at Morgan.
Then footsteps echoed from the buildings as all the soldiers slowly descended, gathering in the center of the street where many corpses lay.
"Sir, we've all regrouped and are ready to launch a counteroffensive—we'll take the enemy base in thirty minutes!"
Looking around at the crowd, Morgan's eyes understood the situation. He walked toward the figure with the concealed face and said, "Jason, I heard what happened on your side. These people are definitely not the kind you can negotiate with!"
Unlike the indifference of their enemies, now that they had these people in custody, they could possibly learn about enemy defenses and plan their next move better. That's what Morgan had learned after all this time leading the central base.
As for whether it was right or wrong—did that even matter?
Jason's team had already classified that shelter as one full of irrational people—lunatics willing to die for absolutely nothing.
"The situation's changed, Morgan. The others have accepted surrender, so now we're only thinking about how to strike these people. From what we've seen so far, there's no point in trying to minimize their casualties."
With the rifle in his hand, Jason looked at the people kneeling before him, then at the ones lying on the ground. He frowned slightly and told the figures behind him, "Take them into a building and ask them if they have any anti-air defenses!"
He then slowly turned around, looking behind him at an area where the blood was even redder—where corpses and weapons littered the ground—and said, "We're not taking any chances. Two Apache helicopters are en route to wipe out the enemy base as thoroughly as possible."
No one around said a word. Even Morgan didn't care much anymore. He wasn't going to bring these people into the future his son would grow up in—not a chance.
"Zz... Sir, we found the submarine. About a dozen men in the vicinity have been eliminated. We're currently on the coast, and it seems the submarine was dragged ashore after the crew abandoned their posts."
"Excellent. Prepare for the attack!"
"Yes, sir!"