Year 2033 AD
A natural disaster strikes. The magnetic field is disrupted, soil becomes contaminated, and species mutate.
Year 2035 AD
The global population shrinks to just millions. The remaining three governments form a federation and build defense bases in the Eastern Hemisphere. During construction, over three hundred thousand soldiers die from radiation exposure.
The radiation-tainted soil reduces crop yields. Once cheap and heavily criticized frozen and canned foods are now rare commodities, in increasing demand each year after the disaster.
Some predict that humanity will perish from food shortages before the zombies take over the Earth.
Year 2045 AD
The population of the Duchy drops below 100,000.
In 2045, the zombie vaccine enters clinical trials, and the radiation effects on the human body are reversed. But in October, a meteorite falls, striking the defense base with deadly precision.
The last 100,000 humans are wiped out.
Outside the massive meteor crater, Zhang Chi and her team stand, dumbfounded.
Clearly, humanity didn't go extinct from food shortages, radiation sickness, or zombies. Coincidentally, humanity, just like the dinosaurs before them, was wiped out by a meteorite.
Some had once fervently believed the disaster was humanity's final judgment.
Of course, not many rational people believed that.
But looking at the situation now, it's hard not to believe that old saying—
"Don't get arrogant; pride will strike you down."
Just yesterday, they had held a celebration, proclaiming to spread humanity's spark across continents and oceans. And today, divine justice falls from the sky—
If Earth were a breeding ground, God was about to change the players.
Maybe it's zombies.
Maybe it's mutated species.
Maybe it's some extraterrestrial invader.
In any case, it certainly wouldn't be the special ops team who had narrowly escaped, sent out to search for plant seeds.
The ten-man squad stands around the base, lost in thought.
One asks, "General Zhang, what do we do now?"
In truth, it doesn't matter what they do.
Since the Big Bang, atoms formed molecules, molecules formed organic matter, and humans invented civilization and history. For hundreds of thousands of years, both philosophy and astrophysics have pointed to humanity's ultimate fate—
The meaning of existence is destruction.
The sun will burn out; how could humans be immortal?
This end has simply come a little sooner than expected.
Human civilization has perished. Even if this team survives, they'll be reduced to a primitive existence, living like cavemen.
Zhang Chi looks up at the sky.
Right now, she deeply regrets.
If she could return to the day before the disaster, she would never have slept in and missed that fried chicken meal.
After the species mutation, global food chains were poisoned, and any animal food causes human genetic mutations.
It's been three years since she last smelled meat.
In the wasteland era, zombies are known to have the best meals.
Every meal is crispy and delicious.
The operational supplies are buried under ruins. Even if they survive by scavenging, their gear doesn't allow them to stay exposed for more than two days.
Zombies can track the scent of humans.
Compared to zombies, genetic mutations don't seem so bad.
Before being eaten by zombies, all the team members choose to have one last great meal.
Three-winged chickens, six-eyed ducks, fish without scales and two heads, green-eyed rabbits bigger than tigers—everything is roasted on skewers.
The last special ops team, celebrated as the federation's elite, undergoes mutations one after another.
Zhang Chi is the last to mutate.
She feels her body begin to twist uncontrollably, and just before her consciousness completely fades, she recalls a question someone asked her years ago—
"If you wake up one day and realize you're the last human on Earth, what would you do?"
Her answer back then was—
"Pinch myself."
"Why?"
"Because I must be dreaming."
High above the sky, a passenger plane moves through soft clouds.
The window opens, and sunlight pierces through the glass, illuminating the floating dust particles in sharp detail.
This scene in a movie would either signal the protagonist starting a new life or heading to a dream vacation—romantic, warm, full of longing for life.
The cabin is packed, every seat taken.
The sunlight shines on everyone's face, but not a single smile can be seen.
Instead of the traditional horizontal rows of seats, the cabin has two vertical columns, facing each other—spacious and comfortable—
If you ignore the shackles on every passenger's hands and feet.
"A bunch of bastards."
The "flight attendant," armed with a handgun at his waist, pushes the meal cart down the aisle, muttering curses as he distributes food. Passengers extend their hands to take the meals, except for one woman at the rear of the cabin, who is fast asleep.
The flight attendant calls out to her a few times, but she doesn't move.
He reaches out to shake her shoulder, but as he gets close, something alerts him. He withdraws his hand, sneers, pushes the meal cart aside, draws his handgun, and kicks her calf.
A sharp crack as her bone hits the metal seat.
In the cabin, no movement escapes the eyes of all the passengers.
The woman finally opens her eyes, gasps for air as though surfacing from deep underwater, and stares blankly at the large man in front of her and the onlookers around her.
She has a youthful face, full of collagen. After sleeping too long, her eyes are half-closed, and her brown pupils are full of confusion—like a young deer entering the human world, looking naïve and lost.
The flight attendant's wariness melts away in an instant.
He even feels guilty for his earlier rudeness.
Humans with a sense of morality often feel guilty over the smallest things.
She was just asleep, not trying to attack anyone.
The flight marshal holstered his gun and pushed the meal cart over, his earlier aggression now replaced with a surprising gentleness. He placed the food tray in front of her—napkins, drink, snacks, everything in place.
The female passenger hesitated, then took the tray.
Across from her sat a tall, heavyset man in his thirties, his face full of thick lines and arrogance. He took two bites before tossing his tray aside.
"What the fuck is this garbage? All canned crap."
The marshal walked over and pointed at the spilled tray on the floor. "Pick it up."
The man sneered and looked away.
The marshal drew his handgun, the black muzzle aimed straight at the man's head. "I said pick it up."
The man spat directly into the marshal's face.
A deathly silence fell over the cabin.
The marshal actually laughed.
He wiped the spit from his face and ground the words out from between clenched teeth: "You have a death wish?"
The man spoke lazily, "You're just a transport cop. You got authority to enforce anything? Get outta my face."
The marshal pressed the gun between the man's brows. "So you know the law?"
The man raised an eyebrow.
The marshal said coldly, "Well, there's one situation where a transport cop has the right to execute a criminal on board."
The man paused.
The marshal continued, slowly, "That's when the prisoner attempts to escape... or hijack the plane."
"I never said I was gonna—"
Before he could finish, his face twisted with sudden terror.
In one smooth motion, the marshal retracted the gun, removed the magazine, placed the bullets in his palm, reloaded the weapon, and flicked it into the man's hands.
Then, wrapping his own hand over the man's, he aimed the gun at his own chest and pressed the red button on his wristwatch.
An alarm blared through the entire cabin.
Before anyone could react, the marshal grabbed the intercom.
"Row 39, seat A. Prisoner attempted hijacking. My firearm has been taken. Requesting immediate termination."
In the cockpit, another armed officer rushed over holding a control panel, his eyes scanning a grid of buttons. He glanced at the "armed hijacker" once and pressed a button.
A scream tore through the cabin.
The gun clattered to the floor. The man convulsed violently, but the secured seatbelt and metal restraints kept him locked in place.
He stared in horror at his right wrist. From the shackle, a needle had shot out, plunged into his vein, and retracted. In an instant, a high-concentration neurotoxin paralyzed his arm. Then his shoulder. His chest.
His face twitched once, as if in death throes—then he was still. Rigid. Like a slab of jerky left out to dry.
His skin had already gone gray. His eyes remained wide open.
Everyone in the cabin held their breath.
Then, without exception, their eyes slowly drifted to the cuffs on their own wrists.
The marshal picked up the gun and looked coldly across the cabin. His gaze lingered a few seconds longer on the group seated on the left.
"If any of you are thinking about escaping, forget it."
"No one escapes from Trash Island. Not from the island, and not from the plane headed there."
He let out a twisted smile.
"Unless, of course, you consider death a way out."
The cabin fell into an uneasy silence as everyone returned to their meal trays.
Zhou Ke glanced around. Even after the violent show of power, every prisoner radiated an aura of "say one word to me and I'll break your face."
As the skinniest guy on the plane, Zhou Ke didn't hesitate to fix his eyes on the girl sitting beside him.
Clearly, he wasn't the only one who didn't belong on this flight.
That gave him a sense of kinship.
He watched her closely, trying to catch her attention without alerting anyone else.
But she just kept eating quietly, completely oblivious to his stares.
She finished her food. Her tray was spotless—like it had just been pulled from a dish rack.
Then her gaze dropped to the floor.
She stood up and stared at the corpse still strapped to the seat for a moment. Then she bent down and picked up the half-eaten canned fish and a small bread roll the man had dropped.
The roll had rolled across the dirty floor, now covered in dust.
She gently peeled off the outer layer, removing the dusty part, and brought it to her mouth.
That's when she finally noticed Zhou Ke.
She turned, and they locked eyes.
Zhou Ke's look was full of curiosity.
"Are you really that hungry?" he asked.
The girl paused, then her throat moved slightly before she answered in a hoarse whisper, "Don't waste food."
A primal warning surged up Zhou Ke's spine and exploded at the crown of his head.
Any feeling of camaraderie instantly vanished.
He sat back in his seat and stared dead ahead out the window.
The flight was long. Criminals had no rights. Even at night, the cabin lights remained painfully bright so every move could be watched.
One by one, people drifted off.
Or at least, they closed their eyes.
Zhou Ke was a light sleeper. The plane hit turbulence, and he jolted awake.
The lights were still blinding.
He rubbed his eyes, felt a wave of dizziness, and turned his head slightly—just enough to glimpse the girl next to him.
She was smiling.
At first, he thought he was imagining it. But when he turned to look directly, in full fluorescent brightness—her eyes were closed, but her lips curled slightly.
She looked... pleased.
Smiling is a powerful thing.
But it has no place in a horror movie.
She shouldn't be smiling.
Not on this plane.
Not on the way to Trash Island.
Not right now.
It was creepy.
Really creepy.
Creepy as fuck.