C18 Xia Yuxue

Horace promptly donned his Desolate Burial attire and left his home fully armed, taking the trash down with him as he went.

With his pistol in hand, he moved with caution, scrutinizing every detail as he made his way into the building across the street.

The staircase was coated in dust, devoid of any recent traces, which only heightened his anxiety. The more abnormal the circumstances, the more frightening they became.

In time, Horace reached the fifth floor. The door stood ajar, the interior dimly lit. Shrouded in shadow, he could see clearly enough.

Even though he was certain the creature had departed, he proceeded with utmost caution. Gripping the pistol firmly in both hands, he mimicked the stance of a movie cop, swiftly entering the room and pressing his back against the wall, pistol raised to his chest, moving and surveying the area simultaneously.

He instantly noticed something amiss. The dust-laden floor bore chaotic footprints—barefoot human footprints!

Incredulous, Horace crouched down to inspect the prints more closely. They were small and shallow, unmistakably human, resembling those of a child.

But they couldn't be human! That eerie shriek was beyond human capability, and it definitely wasn't from a nuclear zombie—Horace was all too familiar with their sounds, and besides, nuclear zombies were inactive at night.

The incredible speed also surpassed Horace's comprehension.

Could there be an unknown, terrifying humanoid creature emerging from the shadows?

In this mad, unfamiliar world, nothing was beyond the realm of possibility.

Take, for instance, the offspring of male and female nuclear zombies, as the legends go.

Some survivors claimed to have seen female nuclear zombies with children, yet no one knew of any special abilities these second-generation nuclear zombies might possess.

Among the nuclear zombies, there was another entity known as the "Mutant," something Horace had only heard about but never witnessed.

If nuclear zombies were simply humans with ordinary mutations, Mutants were nuclear zombies that had undergone extraordinary transformations.

The Mutants possessed formidable survival skills and lethal power. They preferred solitude, preying on all creatures, including nuclear zombies, which made them less of a threat to survivors.

However, the rumored size of the Mutants was substantial, clearly not fitting the profile of this "little child."

Horace quickly assessed the situation, pushing aside the astonishment that gripped his heart. He stood up straight and continued to examine the footprints surrounding him.

"Dad, I see you!" The walkie-talkie at his waist suddenly burst to life, startling him so much he nearly leaped into the air. He quickly realized it was his son calling.

Horace maintained his composure, casually waving to the opposite balcony, and resumed his inspection.

He could confirm that the footprints were made by the same individual. The final trace vanished at a window, indicating the creature had scaled the wall. That explained the absence of footprints on the stairs.

Peering down from the window, Horace noted the sheer wall behind the building offered no handholds. Even as an adept climber, he knew it would be impossible for a human to scale it, further evidence that the intruder was not of this world.

After securing all the windows, he returned home and reassured his son that nothing had been found, but stressed the importance of remaining vigilant.

The tension of the day finally catching up with him, Horace could no longer stay awake. He instructed his son to keep an eye on the surveillance, have lunch, and the like before climbing into bed and succumbing to sleep.

He slept deeply, waking naturally to complete darkness. Glancing at the luminous hands of his watch, he saw it was already eight in the evening. At some point, his son had snuggled into bed beside him, sleeping soundly with soft snores.

Filled with tenderness, Horace decided not to move his son back to his own bed. He quietly rose, noting with approval that the curtains were drawn shut.

Forgoing the lights, he used the dim glow of a flashlight to throw together a makeshift meal, combining lunch and dinner. Feeling refreshed, he found himself drawn to the balcony's sliding glass door. He parted the curtains slightly and peered out. All was calm.

Horace gazed out into the night for a long while. The darkness was oppressive, like a vast lid sealing off the lifeless, abandoned city.

The absence of incidents now didn't guarantee a peaceful night.

He turned and entered his study, powered up the desktop computer, opened an e-book, and switched on the surveillance system. With headphones on, he divided his attention between reading and listening for any signs of disturbance outside, but all he could hear was the howling wind.

Wrapped snugly in a thick blanket, Horace leaned back in his computer chair, flipping through the pages of a fantasy novel until he unknowingly drifted off to sleep.

He was certain that the eerie screech hadn't sounded again; otherwise, it would have jolted him awake, even if he were in the deepest pits of hell.

He had never believed in ghosts, but if someone claimed that the noise was a ghostly wail, he was inclined to believe them. Was this specter fixated on him and his son, or was it merely a transient presence, never to return? Horace could only hope for the latter.

He had resolved that if the entity reappeared, he would do whatever it took, even if it meant selling all his possessions, to move with his son to the safety of the black market.

The beeping of his watch alarm roused Horace from his slumber in the chair. It was five in the morning, signaling the start of a new day.

He grabbed a flashlight and entered his son's room, gently waking Frank: "Time to get up."

As Horace busied himself with breakfast, Frank went from room to room, drawing back the curtains to let the faint morning light seep in. Suddenly, he exclaimed with the excitement of a great discovery, "Dad, it's snowing! Look, it's snowing outside!"

"Ah?" Horace looked up, his surprise evident as he peered outside.

Indeed, against the grayish-blue backdrop, large flakes of gray snow were descending from the sky. Gray snow was a formidable adversary for survivors, its hue a grim reminder of the accumulation of radioactive rainout in the atmosphere.

Since the nuclear explosion had brought about the black rain, gray snow had become an annual winter occurrence. The immediate consequence was a spike in atmospheric radiation levels, forcing survivors to stay indoors with protective gear for at least a month following the snowfall. Venturing outside required gloves and gas masks, and some even donned full biochemical suits to shield their skin from the contaminated air.

The most perilous aspect was that nuclear zombies thrived on snowy days, unbothered by the radiation. The post-snow landscape provided them with prime opportunities to prey on survivors.

In anticipation of winter, survivors would stockpile resources, ensuring they could remain indoors for two to three months, subsisting on their reserves.

Despite these precautions, the harsh winter claimed many lives through freezing, starvation, or disease, with even more falling victim to the nuclear zombies.

Winter was the harshest season for nuclear zombies to endure.

Their staple diet consisted of raw meat. During other seasons, they could hunt wild animals, but with the onset of winter, all the animals went into hibernation. The nuclear zombies then had no choice but to turn their attention to the survivors holed up in their homes.

Despite their transformation, nuclear zombies were still humans who had undergone a nuclear mutation. They had a preference for using their teeth and hands, yet they retained human consciousness and the ability to think, always finding ways to break into homes.

Over the last three years, the number of survivors devoured by nuclear zombies had reached into the hundreds of thousands.