33. Crimson

“Everyone get down!”

Dean, the quickest to react, kicked over the stainless steel barbecue grill, yanked Caroline down behind it, and crouched low. Almost at the same time, Rust, who trusted him the most, pressed Brittany’s shoulder and ducked as well.

Liam, Cathy, and Noah, their minds short-circuited, instinctively followed suit.

Rat-a-tat-tat—

At the intersection, the armored man swiveled, his flaming rifle sweeping the crowd like the scythe of death.

The man in the jacket, closest to the intersection, pitched forward as if felled by an unseen hand. Blood gushed from the gaping wound in his chest, staining the golden sand a glistening crimson.

On the edge of the slope, the girl in the dress suddenly had a gaping, bowl-sized hole burst open in her face. She tumbled down, her one remaining eye wide with terror and unwillingness.

Screams erupted.

“Jesus!”

“Mami!”

Cries of shock and terror spread like a plague. The camp erupted into chaos as people scattered in panic, only to fall like wheat before the guns’ roar.

The overturned grill sent flames licking up picnic cloths and silks, thick plumes of smoke spiraling into the sky.

The sinister wind howled louder. The air filled with the dull thud of collapsing bodies, the shattering of glass and dishes, the wrenching screams of the wounded, the bellow of bullets leaving their chambers—

It was as if a thousand dull knives were slicing through his ears.

Dean, nauseous with agitation, upended a solid wooden table to reinforce their barricade behind the barbecue grill.

He turned swiftly, scanning the scene.

Another gunman stood guard at the parking lot, firing an AK-47 in sweeping arcs. The rifle’s power was such that a single shot left a person helpless.

Those desperate enough to try fleeing in their cars fell one after another into pools of their own blood.

By the lake, a nimble baseball player frantically sprinted toward the water. He had miraculously dodged the rain of bullets in the camp, reaching the wet sand, just one leap away from the safety of Lake Mead.

A gunshot exploded, and his thigh burst into a spray of blood. His athletic figure stumbled, collapsing to the ground.

Face twisted in despair, he clawed desperately at the sand, trying to drag himself into the lake.

Bang!

The second shot struck his temple, like a bat smashing into the side of his head. He toppled over, half his body submerged in the cold water, lying limp on the shore.

Not far from him, five corpses already lay sprawled, blood spraying like a fountain.

Even the sapphire edge of the lake was tinged with an evil stain of red.

By Lake Mead, three ruthless gunmen had penned their prey into a “beast enclosure,” closing in for the kill.

Flesh and bone were pitifully fragile before steel and gunpowder; with every passing second, more lives were lost.

A place once brimming with joy had become a living hell.

Dean pressed his back against the upright table, taking a deep breath. From his bag, he drew an M1911A1.

The system shook violently. Suddenly, a swath of stark red text flashed before his eyes.

“Emergency Event Triggered—Hunt (1/1)
Three uninvited guests are slaughtering the picnickers by Lake Mead.
You are on the death list as well; find a way to survive.
You must also choose your position: eliminate the three gunmen, or join the slaughter and kill three tourists amid the chaos.
Event Difficulty: Easy
Progress: (0/100)
Time Limit: One hour
Reward: 80 experience
Penalty: None

…Kill tourists? What the hell?

Dean’s eyes filled with horror.

“I’m scared!” Caroline’s cry pulled him back. Her face was drained of color, clutching his right hand in a death grip, her whole body curled up like a frightened animal.

“This must be a movie, right, guys?”

Liam dropped to the ground in a daze. Cynthia buried her head in his arms, sobbing uncontrollably.

“It’s too real! But it’s fake, it’s all fake! That’s not blood, it’s just ketchup!” Liam reached out to touch a chunk of flesh that had landed on the ground outside the grill, dabbed it with his finger, and brought it to his tongue.

The nauseating stench of blood left Liam petrified.

Rust and Brittany huddled together, trembling, lips quivering, knuckles white with fear.

“What do we do? Someone think! Say something!” Brittany cried.

With armed maniacs attacking indiscriminately, ordinary students, no matter how calm, were helpless before such sudden disaster.

“We’ve got to run! Rust, where are the Ford keys?”

Noah and Cathy exchanged a terrified glance.

“I’ll drive and get help from the park security!”

“No one move! Staying put is safest!” Dean’s sharp gaze swept over each panicked face, his firm voice carrying a strange power that steadied their nerves.

A blessing amid misfortune.

Their spot was at the southwestern edge of the camp, against the cliff wall—the gunmen’s blind spot. Hiding behind the grill, they could at least eke out a few more minutes.

Those few minutes were precious time to think.

Dean shifted, hiding the handgun against his abdomen, flicking off the safety.

Right hand ready—one pull of the trigger and he could shoot.

But he didn’t act rashly.

At this life-or-death moment, his will sharpened to a razor’s edge.

His mind focused with unprecedented clarity; ideas flooded in, every detail of the battlefield became a chess piece on the board of his mind.

Today’s slaughter was clearly premeditated.

The three men were bulky—surely wearing body armor—plus steel helmets and goggles, moving like mobile bunkers spewing fire.

His own shooting skills barely adequate; to trade shots with an AK-wielding soldier would be suicide.

But staying put was just waiting for death. A grill and a table wouldn’t stop an AK. Once the gunmen got close, they’d turn everyone to Swiss cheese from a distance.

So the only chance was to go on the attack, close within ten meters, and use “Shadow” to kill them all!

As for the system’s option to kill innocent tourists, Dean dismissed it without a thought—he wasn’t a maniac.

But how to deal with the gunmen?

His mind raced.

Body armor had weak points!

His shooting skill’s knowledge surfaced.

The armpit.

To keep the arms mobile, body armor was thin under the armpit—a single shot there would be devastating.

The rifle fire by the parking lot suddenly ceased.

The gunman was reloading.

The other “hunters” at the intersection and lakeside circled the camp, overturning boxes, hunting survivors. None were paying attention to his side.

Opportunity!

Dean took a deep breath, picked up a sharp meat cleaver with his left hand, gripped the handgun in his right.

His eyes swept over his companions—their faces twisted with fear and wild hope, bodies quaking with a strange excitement.

He had trained alone for so long, and now, at last, was the moment to test himself.

“Caroline, Rust… stay here. Don’t move… You’ll make it out alive.”

“I promise!”

They all stared, wide-eyed.

Dean, half-crouched, spun and darted out from behind the barricade.

An invisible shadow hovered behind him, moving as one with him, like a puppet on a string.

Man and shadow charged straight at the gunman’s back, thirty meters away—a panther streaking through grass.

Thirty meters.

Twenty-five.

Twenty.

Fifteen.

The man turned, spotting this would-be hero. He slammed the magazine into his AK, swinging the barrel.

Facing Dean now.

Behind his goggles, a merciless, mocking glint.

Ten meters!

Dean’s breath caught.

He hurled the loaded pistol in his right hand. As it hit the ground, it defied physics and skimmed forward along the earth.

In Dean’s eyes, “Shadow” became a swirl of gray mist, sweeping the handgun forward at high speed.

In a flash, it reached the man’s side.

The goggles limited the man’s vision; he didn’t notice the uncanny scene. His weapon rose, finger on the trigger.

Just a squeeze, and Dean would be pulp.

Bang!

A gunshot split the air.

But it wasn’t the rapid fire of an assault rifle—just a single report.

The pistol recoiled.

A wail followed.

Blood burst from the man’s right armpit, soaking his coat. The .45 ACP round slipped through the gaps in his vest and bones, shredding his lungs in an instant, leaving a gaping cavity.

The burly figure crumpled bonelessly, as if his spine had been yanked out, his right arm flinging to the side in agony.

His AK-47 veered skyward as he fell, spraying harmless sparks into the air.

His vision went dark; blood bubbled from his lips.

“How… how did the attack…?”

No answer.

An invisible force poured through his helmet, gripping his nose and throat, choking him.

A figure rushed up, kneeled, and with his left hand pushed the man’s helmet back, exposing his neck.

Like a prisoner on the guillotine.

The blade that would end him flashed in Dean’s right hand.

Combat LV1 kicked in—muscle memory, weapon stances, critical points—all surged to the forefront.

Dean’s wrist flicked, slashing sideways—a streak of white arcing through the air.

The line between life and death.

Slice—

Flesh curled back, trachea severed, a fountain of bright arterial blood shot up a meter high, the man’s limbs spasming as his eyes glazed over.

“You killed an enemy with a blade.
Skill Proficiency +9,
Combat LV1 (48/200).
Emergency Event—
Hunt (33/100)”

…

Breathe… In… Out…

A flush of excitement colored Dean’s cheeks.

From the moment he’d left the grill, it had taken just seven or eight seconds.

The executioner who’d slaughtered dozens with his AK-47 died in silence at Dean’s feet!

But amid the chaos, with people fleeing and smoke and flames obscuring everything, almost no one noticed what had happened here.

…

Dean reached to pull off the body armor.

Suddenly, the gunman blocking the intersection turned toward the parking lot. His black mask betrayed no emotion, a cold machine of slaughter.

But his AK-47 swung around, aiming at the man standing over his dead comrade.

Rat-a-tat—

Bullets struck the thick body armor.

Dean propped up the corpse like a tower shield, blocking the whizzing bullets.

At the same time, gray mist swirled, tracing the outline of a translucent “phantom armor” around Dean.

Shielded by the ghostly armor, Dean pushed the “tower shield” forward, advancing toward the gunman at the intersection.