Chapter 100: Cold Weapons

"Get up, you lazy pigs!"

Just as the sun was peeking over the horizon, the camp was already buzzing with curses. Soldiers stomped around, using rifle butts and heavy boots to jolt everyone awake. Folks were getting kicked out of their dreams, literally. Painful yelps filled the air, and every now and then, someone would try to fight back, but it always ended the same way—with a bayonet through the heart and another body on the ground.

Wellington's crew had it a bit better since they had people to wake them up. The refugees? Not so much. They got the rough end of the stick, always getting beaten awake. Most of them didn't even have tents, and last night was freezing. They'd barely caught a wink before they were forced up, no choice but to start assembling.

Breakfast was a joke—just some sweet potatoes, barely enough to keep a grown man going.

Wellington's team had their own stash, so they ate well. But Wellington was sick of potatoes and sweet potatoes every day. His crew usually had wheat and a bit of corn, which was top-tier grub in the wasteland.

The other teams were already gathering. Wellington put down his bowl and asked, "Oliver, how'd it go last night?"

Oliver had only eaten enough to keep him going, not because there wasn't enough food, but because stuffing himself would mess up the march and fight ahead. He nodded and said, "It's almost set. Everyone's seriously pissed this time."

In this post-apocalyptic mess, nobody was a saint; they'd do whatever it took. If someone led the charge, the rest would follow.

It took about an hour to get everyone together. Over fifty thousand people split into three groups and started marching towards Greenfield City. The management's soldiers broke off six thousand men, rushing towards the outskirts of Greenfield City and soon clashing with zombies.

The remaining four thousand, mostly guarding the thirty thousand refugees, kept moving towards Greenfield City.

A few miles took just over half an hour to cover. What they saw was pure chaos. Not many zombies on the outskirts, but the streets were a mess, littered with zombie corpses. Since it was still the outskirts, the zombie numbers were low, and the soldiers hadn't taken any hits.

In the nearby streets and alleys, soldiers were crouched, picking off zombies with clean shots. The difference between human and zombie attacks was night and day. When zombies attacked humans, they could use hit-and-run tactics to wipe out a bunch of zombies with just a few people. But when humans attacked zombies, it was a grind. They had to pile on the firepower, moving inch by inch, using brute force to push back the zombies and clear a path.

When you're hitting a city, speed's the name of the game.

You gotta blast through with heavy firepower and move fast to snag the supply depot before the zombies even know what's up. Zombies are like, super tuned into sound, so a big attack like this? Yeah, they're gonna hear it from miles away. Picture millions of zombies swarming every street and alley—enough to make your skin crawl, right?

That's why the brass had to throw in their best soldiers from the get-go, charging in like there's no tomorrow.

Someone once had this bright idea to use the zombies' sound sensitivity against them—make a racket in the opposite direction to draw them away. But with advanced zombies in the mix, that plan was a no-go. You couldn't lure all the zombies in the city, and you'd still be up against a horde.

Plus, the louder the noise, the more likely you'd wake up the big bads and special infected.

We barely know jack about these special infected, and who knows what kind of freaky zombies are lurking in the city. That spitting monster we ran into recently? Yeah, it messed us up pretty bad.

So, six thousand elite soldiers stormed down six streets. The heavy machine guns on the vehicles were the real MVPs. One sweep and the zombies were toast. A fan-shaped sweep took like ten seconds, and there were zombie bits everywhere. It was a total gore fest.

The refugees rolled in and got stopped. Dozens of trucks pulled up, and when the doors opened, they were packed with all kinds of cold weapons.

A tough-looking dude in his thirties climbed up a machine gun tower and yelled through a loudspeaker, "Alright, listen up! Each of you gets a weapon. Anyone who doesn't follow orders gets shot on the spot."

Everyone knew what was up—they were being forced to grab these weapons and fight the zombies.

Zombies ain't human; they're clumsy but way scarier. In a human fight, you might get hurt but still live, even if you're messed up. But with zombies? One tiny scratch and you're infected, turning into one of them.

No one could promise they wouldn't get even a tiny cut fighting zombies. It was a death sentence. No one thought they'd make it, especially against millions of zombies. Thirty thousand people? Just a drop in the bucket, gone before they even made a dent.

The noisy crowd went dead silent.

The soldiers, sticking to orders, started whacking the stunned folks with their rifle butts, yelling, "If you don't wanna die, grab a weapon, now!"