"The pulse wave will force the breaker to cut off the Red Queen's mainframe for thirty seconds. After that, if we don't remove her motherboard, she'll reboot. So we must take out the motherboard within those thirty seconds. Don't worry about shutting down the Red Queen causing problems—that's just childish nonsense. The real danger comes if we don't cut the power."
Kaplan explained while pulling out a prepared bag. He pressed a few buttons on the Red Queen's metal column, causing a metal board to eject. Carefully, he placed the board into the bag.
Holding his weapon, Nathan waited until Kaplan finished packing before leaving the chamber with him.
Rachel, Alice, and the other man looked at Nathan's fully armed appearance with surprise, as if wondering how he wasn't exhausted carrying all that. Clearly, people from countries where guns were legal couldn't understand someone from a gun‑restricted country having such passion and attachment to firearms.
Nathan didn't care about their opinions. He let them walk ahead, crouched down to speak with Rachel, and placed an extra pistol and two magazines into her hands.
"Rachel, you weren't scared by the corpses, were you?"
"I'm fine, just…"
"Good. This is the medic's pistol. The recoil should be small, more suitable for you. Danger may come soon. I'll do my best to protect you, but you must also protect yourself. Do you know how to use a gun? Should I teach you?"
"My father is a policeman, so… I know a little. But…"
Rachel seemed hesitant, unwilling to accept the gun. Nathan, a bit firm, placed the pistol and two spare magazines into the small black shoulder bag she always carried.
"If you know how to use it, that's best. Only use it when necessary. Don't overthink. If things get bad, just follow my instructions."
"…Alright…"
Though hesitant, Rachel nodded obediently. Nathan happily patted her hair, then stood and rejoined the group.
But before they had taken more than two steps, gunfire suddenly erupted in the distance—rapid shots, first pistols, then the burst of submachine guns.
When they arrived, they heard Kaplan questioning Rain, the female mercenary left behind at the B‑restaurant, about why she had fired. Rain explained she had found survivors, but the survivor went mad and tried to bite her when she attempted to help.
"Wait! Why are you carrying Bruce's gun?!"
J.D., the male mercenary also left behind, noticed Nathan's weapon and immediately confronted him. Before Nathan could answer, Kaplan spoke up:
"They don't need them anymore. Giving him the gun makes things safer."
"Don't need them anymore? What's going on?"
"That…"
"Hey! Come quickly—the woman who was shot just now is gone!"
Matt, still handcuffed, suddenly shouted, drawing everyone's attention and cutting off the conversation.
Because… that woman had taken more than ten bullets from Rain. Theoretically, unless she were some invincible drama hero, survival was impossible.
"What happened?"
Nathan, with Rachel, stepped closer and looked at the blood on the floor. But instead of the massive bleeding expected from ten bullets, there were only a few drops.
Rachel stared seriously at the ground, puzzled:
"This blood… looks coagulated? But that's impossible. Blood doesn't clot before death. And it hasn't been long enough since the shooting for it to coagulate."
"It can't be from the dead…"
Before finishing, Nathan remembered the Red Queen's warning—and his earlier thoughts about zombies.
At that moment, a metallic scraping sound echoed from afar. Everyone grew alert, and Nathan instinctively looked over.
A man in a lab coat, head lowered, dragged a fire axe toward them. His ankle was grotesquely twisted, yet he limped forward.
From another direction, a worker missing a quarter of his head and face—exposing skull and gray brain matter—locked eyes with Nathan, snarled deeply, and rushed forward.
Others followed: a man missing an eye, and many more in lab coats and work uniforms, all emitting mindless groans as they approached.
"Stop! Stop right there! Or… I'll shoot!"
Nervous, Nathan raised his gun, aiming at the half‑headed man, shouting to halt his advance. Rachel clutched his clothes from behind, frightened.
He aligned the sights on the man's head, safety off, set to semi‑auto mode—one bullet per trigger pull. His palms sweated heavily from tension.
Before arriving in this world, he had handled countless firearms and fired thousands of rounds. But his targets had always been paper silhouettes. This time, the crosshairs locked not on a target outline, but on an actual human figure. The pressure was immense, his finger trembling on the trigger.
"…I told you to back off! Back off now! Or I'll really shoot! Don't… force me!"
Though he believed they were zombies, he had only seen such creatures in pirated movies. In reality, he feared being wrong. Shooting another human carried a heavy psychological burden. Like new soldiers on the battlefield, no matter how many times they had practiced, the first time firing at a person was always difficult.
Staring intently at the man, Nathan's eyes widened, sweat dripping from his forehead, nerves stretched taut. His finger shook on the trigger.
Then…
Bang!
Someone fired the first shot. Instinctively, Nathan pulled his trigger too.
The orange bullet flew, its trajectory invisible to the eye, striking the man's forehead instantly.
To Nathan, it was just a flash from his muzzle—then the man collapsed. Too quick, too simple. He barely processed what had happened before the enemy was dead.
Perhaps some strange switch had been flipped, or adrenaline surged too strongly. With a sudden rush of emotion, he swung his gun toward another zombie and fired again.
As the deafening gunfire roared, another body fell.