Chapter 579: Don't Run!

A swelteringly hot evening…

"Beep! Beep!"

The horns blared densely in the bustling city.

Seen from above.

In the highly "modern" districts, streets and intersections, all kinds of vehicles crowded together.

However, despite being called "modern", most roadside buildings are only a few dozen meters tall; only near the bustling downtown do numerous structures over a hundred meters rise.

It looks exactly like the late twentieth or early twenty‑first century of the main universe.

At this moment.

Southeast side of the city.

On the overpass sloping above the main thoroughfare, both the routes into the city and those heading out to the suburbs are gridlocked.

Countless drivers, unable to move or having missed important appointments or gatherings, feel extremely irritable and slam their horns wildly to vent their pent‑up anger.

At the point where they can soon leave the overpass and merge onto the suburban road.

Inside a four‑door dark‑blue minivan.

"Honey, when will you be home?"

"I told you I'm coming right now! Stop asking, okay?!"

"Fine…"

"I'm not going to talk to you anymore!"

A buzz‑cut man in a suit abruptly hangs up the phone and tosses the handset onto the passenger seat.

It seems the buzz‑cut man, also frustrated by the traffic, has completely lost patience with his girlfriend—or perhaps his wife—on the other end.

"Huh!"

Immediately after, he throws his suit jacket onto the back seat, then loosens his tie, finally able to breathe properly.

Seeing the car ahead inch forward, the buzz‑cut man instantly releases the brake, nudging his vehicle forward a bit, but it soon stops again.

Traffic jam.

The car's air conditioning is broken.

And today is oppressively hot.

It truly robs the buzz‑cut man of any post‑work relaxation; otherwise he wouldn't have lost his temper with the person on the other end.

He eases off.

Following the car ahead as it gradually leaves the overpass, merges onto the side road out of the city, and as the traffic eases and a breeze flows in through the window, the buzz‑cut man's irritation slowly dissipates.

He glances at the family portrait hanging from the rearview mirror—especially his wife and two daughters—and shows a genuine, satisfied smile, while he remains expressionless, his brow still slightly furrowed…

"Sigh… never mind, I can't bring this bad luck home either."

The buzz‑cut man mutters self‑reproachfully.

So, seeing enough distance to the car ahead, he grips the steering wheel firmly with his left hand, frees his right hand, and keeps turning his head to fumble for the phone he tossed onto the passenger seat.

However, this reckless maneuver causes, during his final glance, the brake lights of the car ahead to flash red.

"Screech!!"

!!

Hearing the sudden screech of the car ahead slamming its brakes, the buzz‑cut man doesn't think, instantly stomps his right foot, forcing his vehicle to halt abruptly.

But before he can straighten his gaze, a "Bang!!" jolts violently, propelling his body forward by inertia.

Fortunately, though the minivan is battered, the airbags still work; combined with the seatbelt, they keep the buzz‑cut man separated from the steering wheel and, with the door airbags, envelop half his body.

Even so, the sudden rear‑end collision and the strong impact blacken his vision.

As consciousness fades…

"Beep—!! Beep!!"

"Screech…! Bang!!"

"Clap! Clap clap!"

He hears more rapid horn blasts and the sounds of vehicles colliding, even the crack of small‑caliber gunfire.

Eventually, the buzz‑cut man can no longer hold on and falls into a complete blackout.

He doesn't know how long passes…

"Hum…"

A sharp ringing in his ears wakes him again.

!

The buzz‑cut man recalls the moments before his drowsy sleep; before his vision fully returns, he quickly sits upright, scanning the surroundings through the shattered windshield.

A scene of devastation.

The vehicles are either stalled and abandoned or ablaze.

"Ah… ah!"

"Help me! Help me!"

Then, some drivers and passengers who couldn't escape the wreckage scream and call for help, only to meet a fiery death.

One car's flames have already subsided, yet this allows the many nearby survivors—and the buzz‑cut man—to directly witness the charred corpses of the driver and front‑seat passenger.

Ugh…!

The buzz‑cut man instinctively gags.

He feels intensely nauseous.

Afterward, he forces himself to endure the discomfort and continues to look around…

Lucky!

He actually spotted the phone, right under the front passenger's glove compartment.

Seeing this, Sui Bian first unbuckled his seatbelt, then pulled the door and gave it a strong outward push, and, with his luck still on his side, easily opened the door.

He staggered a bit as he climbed out of the car, and when he stood and looked toward the suburbs…the direction of home, he saw smoke rising and dissipating upward.

Sui Bian had a lingering bad premonition.

Before he could fully recover, Sui Bian circled from the rear of the car to the other side.

He opened the front passenger door, grabbed the phone, and while jogging toward the suburbs, dodged other survivors, weaving between vehicles, he located the call log and dialed the contact labeled "Dear."

"Beep... beep... Sorry, the number you dialed is not answered..."

"Beep... Sorry..."

But no matter how many times Sui Bian tried, all he got was a busy tone and a soulless automated reply.

"..."

Sui Bian only felt his heart race.

Unwittingly, he had left the side road and arrived at a middle‑class neighborhood that lies on the usual route home.

He remembered this place as friendly, with harmonious neighbors, and most importantly, many police patrolling.

But at this moment, that perception was shattered for Sui Bian.

Besides wrecked, abandoned cars, torn clothing, blood, tissue, and human limbs and torsos were everywhere, with hardly any intact corpse.

Even though Sui Bian had never served in the military or held a police or other violent‑force position, he could instantly tell that the scattered body fragments and debris were not the result of the previous chain‑reaction crashes.

This was clearly some kind of riot!

Moreover, the rioters had executed the victims before his eyes.

!

When he regained his composure, Sui Bian, standing at the entrance of a convenience store, felt his mind weigh down to the extreme.

His wife's failure to answer the phone and the horrific scene before him amplified the deep‑seated bad premonition.

He dared not keep speculating.

"Don't run! Hahaha! Come here! Let me *kill you!!"

At that moment, a frenzied roar cut off Sui Bian's forward movement.

He quickly bent down and ducked to the side of a police car whose doors and trunk were both flung open.

Through the front and passenger windows, he saw the entrance of a nearby alley where a frantic, rag‑clad woman in her fifties ran out.

Behind the woman, a dark‑skinned, heavily built loafer was chasing her, continuing to shout vulgar curses:

"You old thing! Hahaha! Don't run! I know you also want my **!!"

Tsk.

Although Sui Bian wasn't a racist, the data showed that the loafer's ethnicity had a crime rate far higher than others.

Thus, when he saw the loafer pursuing and committing violence, he got a déjà vu feeling that "this is how it should be."

"Ah!"

A scream echoed through the street.

The loafer lunged onto the woman in her fifties, uttered even more frantic, explicit words, violently tore her clothing, and rushed to assault her.

"."

Sui Bian did not intend to intervene.

The reasoning was simple: he considered himself no match for the 1.9‑meter‑tall, hulking loafer, and besides, he only wanted to get home quickly and avoid unnecessary entanglements.

Only.

When Sui Bian went around the police car's rear, he discovered that the open trunk also contained an open weapons locker.

Inside lay a Remington M870 police‑style shotgun and about forty‑plus pellets of red, green, and assorted colors scattered throughout the trunk.

!

Seeing the gun and ammunition, Sui Bian was momentarily stunned.

But he quickly recovered, snatched the Remington, grabbed the shells one by one, stuffing them into his pockets, and filled the magazine beneath the barrel.

Sui Bian guessed that the police officers in that car and their partner had taken the 5.56‑caliber rifle, hadn't had time to lock the locker, and were forced to abandon it due to the sudden incident.

Regardless, he was no longer unarmed; he now had the means to protect himself.

He then looked at the still‑attacking loafer, furrowed his brows, closed his eyes to contemplate for two or three seconds, and finally reopened them as if his conscience wouldn't let him.

"Click!" he pulled the bolt.

Having made up his mind, Sui Bian loaded the Remington, sprinted forward, pointed the barrel at the loafer's back and shouted:

"Hey! You scumbag! Leave that woman! Or I'll shoot!"

But the loafer's hands were rhythmically hammering the woman's jaw, seemingly too focused on the assault to hear Sui Bian's shout.

Seeing this.

Sui Bian quickened his pace, used the momentum to lift his right leg, and kicked the loafer in the back, finally halting the assault.

"Fuck you!"

The fallen loafer, furious, stood up without even pulling up his pants, and looked at Sui Bian, whose gun barrel was aimed at him.

?!

What the hell is going on?

Are you not scared of the gun?

Sui Bian had no time for further thought or moral restraint; seeing the loafer threaten his life, he decisively pulled the trigger.

"Bang!" the harsh gunshot rang out.

"Bang!!" The body was struck by a violent impact, a hammer‑like blow.

"Clack! Dang~Dang." The shotgun shells were chambered, and the sound of the casings hitting the ground rang out together.

The thug was hit squarely in the chest by an 18.5 mm kinetic projectile; his whole body went out of control, he flew backward and crashed, collapsing limp on the ground, losing the ability to move.

This projectile, made of rubber pellets, carries about 28 joules of energy and is mainly used to disperse violent agitators within roughly 30–100 meters.

Although it appears to be a non‑lethal round, at distances of 1–15 meters it can still be fatal and cause permanent injuries.

The short‑haired man didn't know any of this.

However, the thug was struck in the chest at a distance of just under four meters, and wearing only a short‑sleeved shirt, he could only exhale, not inhale.

Even so, the thug kept struggling, his face showing little pain but instead extreme resentment and anger, snarling at the short‑haired man:

"Damn you. I want your forehead."

But after he managed to sputter out a few words with difficulty, the thug threw his head back completely and lost his breath.

"Huh!!"

And the short‑haired man was killing someone for the first time, causing his adrenaline to surge, his breathing to quicken, and his hands to tremble uncontrollably.

It's fine; the target was a violent strong** criminal, killing him was perfectly justified.

He kept giving himself mental reassurance, forcing himself to stay calm, then turned his body, preparing to ask the elderly lady how...

"You son of a bitch! Who let you interrupt him! Don't you know I'm **!"

But just as he finished turning, the lady lying on the ground, for some reason, also began to go mad.

?!

The short‑haired man saw the other's eyes blood‑red, and blood continuously oozed from the corners of his mouth and nostrils.

At the same time, the other's forehead, between the eyebrows, chin, and both cheekbones began to sprout dense blisters and blood rashes, gradually forming a Blood Cross on the face.

Blood Cross.

!

Seeing this, the short‑haired man, whose profession had nothing to do with medicine or research, instantly realized that the elderly lady's sudden change in demeanor seemed caused by some infectious disease.

Then the lady tried to struggle to her feet, also preparing to lunge at him; this time the short‑haired man hesitated no longer, instantly swung the gun around and kept pulling the trigger.

"Boom!"

"Puff!"

One shot finished the other.

And this time, the short‑haired man's sense of guilt dropped sharply.

Immediately after, he kept the gun at a safe distance, approached the dead thug not far away, and carefully examined his facial features.

Sure enough, there were faint Blood Cross symptoms.

The reason it wasn't noticed at first was that the thug's skin was so dark that the crimson hue was not obvious.

The guess was correct.

These madness and frenzy symptoms are contagious, and the onset is rapid; at least the elderly lady was still screaming for help and begging for mercy half a minute earlier.

And he himself showed no symptoms, indicating that this unknown contagion likely requires substantial contact of flesh, blood, or bodily fluids.

The short‑haired man is not a member of those "dumb‑down" anti‑vaccine, anti‑science groups.

After work, his pastime, besides taking his wife and children out for a good meal, is playing zombie and demon shooting games.

His gaming experience was perfectly applied to the current situation.

After analyzing the city's traffic congestion and the current riot's inseparable link with this "Blood Cross", the short‑haired man dared not delay, hurried back to the police car whose engine was still ablaze.

He immediately drove toward a residential house no more than two kilometers away.

It was a house with its front door wide open.

!!

Even if the short‑haired man hadn't contracted the Blood Cross, his eyes were already blood‑red; he grabbed a Remington and leapt out of the police car, sprinting with his best ever speed into the house.

He saw the kitchen bar covered with blood‑red and milky‑yellow stains, and on the dining table lay his wife's

skull.