Thirty miles southwest of Atlanta.
A refugee camp.
Calling it a refugee camp, it was actually more like a giant concentration camp.
Barbed wire fences, watchtowers, patrolling Soldiers, and crowds of people packed densely into the tent area.
This place was originally a National Guard training base, but now it was packed with survivors who had fled from Atlanta and the surrounding towns.
The midday sun beat down ruthlessly, and there was not a shred of shade in the tent area.
People stood in long lines, waiting to receive lunch.
The line moved forward slowly. Everyone held a tray in their hands—some brought from home, some issued by the camp, and some were just random pieces of wood they had found.
At the very front of the line, several people wearing dirty aprons were distributing food.
There was a large bucket containing some kind of gooey substance, a color between gray and yellow, impossible to identify.
The person distributing it used a large ladle to scoop it out and slapped it onto the tray with a splat.
Then they handed over a hard piece of bread.
A middle-aged man held his tray, looked down at the lump of food, poked it with his spoon, and caught a whiff of an indescribable smell.
"What the hell is this?" He frowned.
The person next to him ignored him and just kept their head down, silently eating their own portion.
The man walked a few steps, but couldn't hold it in any longer. He turned around and walked toward a nearby Soldier.
"Hey!"
He shouted, "Can't you give us something decent to eat? Even pigs wouldn't eat this stuff!"
The Soldier glanced at him but didn't say anything.
Seeing that the Soldier was ignoring him, the man raised his voice even louder. "We pay taxes to support you Soldiers, and this is what you feed us? I'm going to report you!"
The Soldier still didn't speak, but his hand was already resting on his gun.
The man's wife ran over and grabbed his arm. "Stop talking, let's go..."
The man shook her hand off. "Why should I stop? We are American citizens! We have rights—"
Bang!
A gunshot rang out.
Everyone froze.
The man looked down at the blood hole in his chest, his eyes wide open.
He opened his mouth to say something, but only spat out a mouthful of blood.
Then he collapsed to the ground.
The crowd screamed and scattered in all directions.
But there was barbed wire everywhere; where could they run?
The one who fired was a lieutenant. He held the still-smoking pistol, his face ashen.
"Who else wants to file a complaint?"
He shouted, "Who else wants to talk about rights?"
No one dared to speak.
The lieutenant put his gun away and said to the nearby Soldier, "Drag him away and throw him out."
Two Soldiers walked over, dragged the still-twitching man, and headed toward the outside of the barbed wire fence.
His wife slumped to the ground, covering her face and weeping silently.
In the center of the camp, inside a requisitioned office building.
Several officers stood by the window, watching everything that had just happened.
"This cannot go on."
A colonel said, his voice weary. "The morale is broken; we can't keep them suppressed."
A major next to him gave a bitter smile. "Even if we can't, we have to. We've lost contact with headquarters for a week. Do you know when the last time I saw the President was?"
The others looked at him.
The major continued, "On TV, he had turned into a Walkers and was shot by the Secretary of Defense. Then the broadcast cut out, and there has been no news since."
Silence.
Another lieutenant colonel spoke up. "How long can the supplies last?"
"Two weeks, two weeks at most."
The colonel said, "And then what? What will these people eat? What will we eat?"
No one could answer.
Just then, a commotion broke out outside.
Everyone turned to look out the window.
In the sky, a dark shadow was approaching.
A helicopter.
A gray-green, medium-sized transport helicopter.
It circled above the camp once, then slowly lowered its altitude.
The crowd erupted.
"Is it the military delivering supplies?"
"They've come to rescue us!"
"Oh God, we're finally saved!"
People waved their arms and cheered at the helicopter.
But the helicopter did not land.
It hovered at a low altitude for a few seconds, then pulled up, turned around, and flew away.
The crowd froze.
Then, anger erupted.
"Why did they leave?"
"Come back!"
"You bastards!"
Someone picked up a stone and threw it at the sky, but the stone couldn't reach it at all.
Someone slumped to the ground, holding their head and crying bitterly.
Someone just stood there dazed, watching that shrinking black dot, unable to say a word.
Inside the office building, the colonel's face was grim.
He had just used binoculars to look at that helicopter.
There was a logo on the fuselage—red and white, hexagonal, shaped like an umbrella.
It wasn't a military logo.
It wasn't the National Guard's.
It wasn't from any organization he recognized.
"What is that?"
He asked.
Lieutenant Wells next to him took the binoculars, looked through them, and shook his head. "Never seen it."
The colonel was silent for a few seconds, then suddenly remembered something.
"Is the helicopter still on the transport truck?"
Wells nodded. "Yes, it's sealed up well."
"Unseal it."
The colonel said, "Next time that aircraft comes back, start it up. I want to know who those people are."
Wells stood at attention. "Yes, sir!"
Above downtown Atlanta.
The Puma helicopter hovered at a low altitude.
Wu Fan sat in the cockpit, looking at the dense crowds of Walkerss below, a faint smile appearing at the corner of his mouth.
He had seen that refugee camp clearly just now.
It was military—organized, disciplined, and equipped.
Under the tarp on that large truck, a small helicopter was tied down—he had seen the tail rotor sticking out.
They were allies, not enemies.
But now was not the time to land.
He pulled the joystick, and the helicopter flew toward the city center.
"BOSS, what are we doing here?"
Glenn asked from the rear cabin.
Wu Fan didn't answer, just disengaged the safety on the weapon system.
Anti-tank missiles, eight of them.
Autocannon, five hundred rounds of ammunition.
He aimed at a street where the Walkerss were most dense.
Then he pressed the firing button.
Whoosh—Boom!
The missile trailed with a tail of fire and landed precisely in the center of the street.
The explosion flipped over a dozen Walkerss, and flames shot up into the sky.
The glass of the surrounding buildings shattered completely, and shards fell like rain.
Whoosh—Boom!
Another one.
Whoosh—Boom!
The third one.
Whoosh—Boom!
The fourth one.
Four streets, four explosion points. Countless Walkerss were blown to pieces, and the points started jumping frantically.
[Walkers killed +10, Points +100]
[Walkers killed +10, Points +100]
[Walkers killed +10, Points +100]
...
Wu Fan watched the numbers constantly jumping on the panel, feeling great.
Since he was already out, how could he not earn some points?
He turned the direction and aimed at another street.
The autocannon began to strafe.
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat—
Bullets poured down like rain, sweeping across the surging Walkerss.
Heads exploded, bodies fell, leaving a carpet of corpses on the street.
The points were still rising.
Ten thousand.
Twelve thousand.
Fifteen thousand.
Eighteen thousand.
Wu Fan released the trigger and glanced at the panel.
[Current Points: 19760]
Just a little bit more until twenty thousand.
He pulled the joystick, preparing for another round.
"BOSS!"
Glenn suddenly shouted, "Look over there!"
Wu Fan looked in the direction of his finger.
On the roof of a tall building, several figures were waving.
Was it Rick? Or other survivors?
He lowered the altitude and looked carefully.
It wasn't Rick.
It was a few people he didn't recognize, wearing ragged clothes, waving their arms desperately.
Wu Fan ignored them and kept flying forward.
He needed to find Rick and Shane.
With such a big commotion just now, as long as they weren't deaf, they should have run to the roof to check.
Wu Fan piloted the helicopter, slowly circling above downtown Atlanta.
One street, two streets, three streets.
Nothing.
He was just about to fly further away when, suddenly, Glenn shouted again:
"BOSS! Over there! Six o'clock direction!"
Wu Fan turned back.
On the roof of an office building, two people wearing black tactical gear were standing there, waving at them.
One of them had golden-brown hair and a face full of stubble.
The other had a buzz cut and a sturdy build.
Rick.
Shane.
Wu Fan smiled.
He pulled the joystick, and the helicopter flew toward that building.