CHAPTER 357: CHAPTER 12: THE END

Sani and his group staggered out of the edge of the town, completely exhausted, their lungs burning like fire, and their legs feeling like lead, making every step excruciatingly painful, requiring enormous effort.

The only reason they did not stop to rest was the thought of ’supporting the counterattack’ that kept them going. They believed that as long as their convoy arrived, everything would be better.

But when they finally reached the outskirts of the town, gasping for air and raising their heads, the view along the highway suddenly opened up, their pupils constricted abruptly, and their minds felt doused with ice water, extinguishing their steadfast belief instantly.

About a kilometer away, thick black columns of smoke rose up along the highway, like banners summoning the undead.

The once mighty convoy of survivors had already turned into a series of conspicuous bonfires, flames roaring and crackling.

Under the relentless barrage of large-caliber machine guns, those imposing modified pickup trucks were as fragile as paper; either pierced through and cracked open or burned and twisted, exposing their ash-gray metal skeletons.

On both sides of the highway, three to four hundred ferocious attackers lay prone; either gruesomely sprawled on the ground or pathetically crouching by the roadside embankments or grassy piles.

Every face was filled with terror and bewilderment. Some were so mentally broken that they could do nothing but sob helplessly. Others sat dumbfounded by the roadside, gasping for air.

Sani’s footsteps slowed, as he stumbled forward like a zombie. The closer he got, the clearer he saw, and he only felt the world spinning, a grayness before his eyes, his mind feeling pierced by countless fine needles in pain.

He struggled to clear his thoughts, to find out at which point things went wrong, but the harsh reality was like a giant stone pressing on his chest, making it hard for him to breathe.

He was acutely aware that all his meticulously planned efforts were now bursting like soap bubbles.

The apocalypse had descended, civilization collapsed, and for survival, people of the same race naturally banded together tightly, forming forces large or small.

For the white survivors, an ingrained sense of racial superiority led them to openly disdain and be hostile toward other ethnic groups.

Upon hearing that in Avoni Town, a group of "yellow-skinned monkeys" had unexpectedly risen quickly with their preparations, forming a formidable power, their intrinsic arrogance drove them into anger.

This alien existence challenged their self-assumed dominance, instinctively making them want to smother it in the cradle.

Sani, Lynch, Scott, these leaders and key figures among the white survivors, soon gathered survivors from several nearby towns.

Originally fraught with contradictions themselves, at that moment they found a common enemy and eagerly wanted to destroy the emerging group called "Holy Light" completely.

Sani himself, to fully understand the opponent’s background, even took the risk to infiltrate the "Holy Light" camp, disguised as an ordinary "basic laborer," silently observing everything.

He considered himself a clever beast tamer, holding candy and a whip, able to easily command his hungry, beastly companions, and secretly control the fate of the yellow-skinned monkeys.

"This is North America, our United States’ North America!"

Sani firmly believed this. He thought he truly understood the survival rules of this land and even began to plan how to manage those non-believing "yellow-skinned slaves" after seizing the camp.

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Yet after walking for half a day, upon reaching the burning convoy, all of Sani’s self-assumed fantasies were mercilessly burned to ashes in the sight of those burning piles.

He first saw Lynch.

The once burly figure lay helplessly beside a modified tractor, bright red blood flowing steadily, spreading wantonly across the road beneath him.

His legs were torn apart by large-caliber machine gun rounds, muscles shredded, bones chillingly visible.

He was not yet dead, his body writhing in pain, with a tourniquet messily wrapped around his thigh, soaked in dark red blood, but it was meaningless.

Not long did he struggle. Due to severe blood loss, his movements gradually slowed, like a stranded fish, his lips moving futilely.

Finally, he shakily lifted a hand, withdrew his beloved gilded pistol, aimed it at his temple, and pulled the trigger without a trace of hesitation.

A dull gunshot ended Lynch’s suffering completely. His head shattered like a watermelon hit by a heavy hammer, red and white brain matter mixed with blood splattering against the wreckage of the tractor, a shocking sight.

Sani continued forward and then saw Gonzalez.

Once a vibrant young man, the proud son of a farm owner, now sat rigidly like a broken rag doll in the driver’s seat of his admired high-power tractor.

Sani recalled Gonzalez proudly demonstrating his handmade "sturdy fortress" — a full thirty-millimeter-thick double-layer steel plate and dense armor grilles encasing the cabin tightly.

"Even machine gun fire couldn’t possibly hurt me!" That young man had laughed confidently not long before.

The brutal reality had delivered everyone a loud slap in the face.

Welding armor plates is a precise technical task. Before the relentless large-caliber machine gun rounds, those seemingly solid welds were as vulnerable as tofu dregs.

Now, Gonzalez’s upper body was gone, leaving only half a damaged body feebly leaning against the seat.