C19 Life and Death Limit

Survivors wouldn't simply resign themselves to fate; they were prepared to fight to the bitter end, preferring mutual destruction over surrender. Consequently, after each winter, the roads were littered with the corpses of nuclear zombies and skeletal remains, stripped of all but their internal organs. The black market security teams were left with no choice but to incinerate them, to prevent decay and the spread of disease.

Thus, those who have managed to survive up to this point are the true masters of endurance, having weathered the dual threats of nuclear zombies and harsh winters. Yet, the gray snow fluttering outside the window served as a stark reminder that in this world, nothing is truly impossible.

In ancient times, the poetic vision of a world where "mountains crumble, rivers run dry, winter thunder shakes the sky, and summer brings snow" was nothing more than a fantasy. Now, that fantasy has turned into a chilling reality. Unlike the ancient poets who celebrated eternal love, this unprecedented summer snowfall is set to disrupt the survivors' rhythm of life, turning into a nightmare for all.

If the month-long black rain following the nuclear blast was once the most challenging and darkest time for the survivors, then this summer, three years later, marks the onset of yet another dark period. With the arrival of the gray snow came a long-absent sense of crisis. Horace felt a stroke of luck that he and his son had just finished scavenging the wasteland and had planned to stay indoors for a month, allowing them to weather this period of intense radiation.

He was torn between feeling compassion for humanity and a perverse sense of relief; the hundreds of thousands of survivors living outside the black market were likely to perish in large numbers. He sighed, recognizing that in a twisted way, this was beneficial—fewer competitors for scavenging resources. And, of course, many nuclear zombies would perish as well.

The gray snow fell for a full day and night, blanketing the earth in a thick, gray shroud, half a meter deep, weighing heavily on the hearts of all the survivors. Faced with back-to-back survival crises, Horace felt an acute sense of urgency and decided to add a new lesson to his son's curriculum: learning to handle firearms.

Curiously, Frank did not share the typical boyish fascination with guns; he had always been more drawn to electronic gadgets like computers and mobile phones. If not for the cursed nuclear explosion, Horace would have been thrilled to nurture his son's interests—perhaps he could have been the next Bill Gates.

If it weren't for that damned nuclear explosion, Horace would have been more than happy to nurture his son's expertise in technology—who knows, he might have been the next Bill Gates? But now, aside from watching movies and shows, Horace strictly prohibited his son from spending long periods in front of electronic screens to prevent nearsightedness.

When it came to his son's education, Horace couldn't cater to the child's interests; survival took precedence above all else.

After observing his father's demonstration, Frank expertly picked up the pistol, inserted an empty magazine, pressed the hammer, pulled back the slide, and aimed at nothing in particular, making a "Pa" sound with his mouth.

Horace continued by teaching Frank how to load and unload the pistol, engage and disengage the safety, and the proper techniques for gripping and firing the weapon.

Initially, Frank found the exercise somewhat intriguing, but as the monotony of reloading, aiming, and unloading set in, he quickly grew bored and started yawning.

Interest sparked again when his father, with dazzling speed, disassembled the entire pistol into an assortment of parts—Frank loved building with blocks, after all.

With over two years of practice, Horace could disassemble and reassemble the pistol in thirty seconds. He hoped that with some training, his son could do it within a minute.

Yet, he never imagined that Frank would achieve it in a single day; if not for his small hands and lack of strength, he might have been even quicker.

Horace rewarded his son with a compressed biscuit, lamenting internally: In a time of peace, his son's future would have been filled with endless possibilities! Now, there was only one—to survive...

In the days that followed, father and son settled into a routine, mechanically repeating their daily schedule.

The gray snow had at least one upside: the unknown creature had not shown itself again. Horace prayed it would stay away forever.

The snow on the ground melted slowly, and icicles of gray snow hung from the eaves and treetops, as if the whole world was frozen in time.

Without any heating, the indoor temperature was barely higher than outside. Both father and son wore their thick down jackets indoors, donning lighter attire only during their regular workouts.

In their spare moments, they would lie on the windowsill or balcony, or use the computer to monitor the surroundings.

During this time, a few groups of nuclear zombies wandered past on the road. They overlooked the unassuming Sunshine Estates, not even bothering to enter the gates, simply passing by.

As Horace had predicted, sporadic gunshots echoed outside the black market, signaling survivors firing off bullets more valuable than food. This indicated one thing: lives more precious than sustenance were under threat.

Finally, after a month had passed, the ground snow had mostly melted away, leaving only a scant covering on the eaves.

For many survivors caught off guard, this moment was a matter of life and death, as their stockpiles dwindled to nothing. Venturing out to scavenge or mine for essential supplies was now a necessity.

Horace, however, was not in a rush. He decided to observe for a few more days, a decision that soon proved wise.

On this day, for the first time in a month, a figure appeared on the road outside Sunshine Estates.

Horace zoomed in on the surveillance footage and could clearly see a survivor sprinting down the road, wearing a makeshift gas mask and with legs flailing.

He noticed the survivor's hands were empty, and there was no backpack in sight.

Typically, this meant only one thing: the survivor was being chased by nuclear zombies and had been forced to discard all burdens.

Yet, there were no nuclear zombies in pursuit.

As Horace pondered this anomaly, the surveillance audio suddenly picked up the roar of a motorcycle engine from beyond the camera's view. Impatient for the image to appear, he grabbed his binoculars and peered out the window facing the street.

A motorcycle burst into view on the other end of the road, with the desperate survivor now pushing his speed to the limit.

Frank, who had been studying in his room, heard the commotion and dashed into the living room. He took his father's place and skillfully navigated the surveillance system on the laptop.

Horace paid no mind to his son's distraction, focusing the binoculars on the motorcycle. Two figures were riding it, clad in black headgear with white skull-patterned masks and black sunglasses resembling hollow eye sockets, resembling a pair of grim reapers.

In an instant, the grim reapers caught up to the fleeing man. The one behind stood up, raised his hand high, and spun something in the air before hurling it forward. The pursued man stumbled and fell to the ground.

Through his telescope, Horace could see clearly that the spinning object was a lasso, now snugly fitted around the neck of the fleeing figure.

Then, with a sharp turn, the motorcycle's exhaust pipe belched smoke as it dragged the ensnared "prey" behind it, indifferent to his frantic writhing. The bike turned and sped off, kicking up a trail of dust, before vanishing in the direction from which it had come.

As the roar of the engine faded into silence, Horace lowered the telescope, his thoughts still swirling in confusion.