Journey to another world in the subway

Chapter 183 Shooting

"Artyom! Artyom! Get up! Get up!"

The light in the Commander's hand shot straight through his eyelids into his pupils.A strong hand grasped his shoulder, and the palm of the other rubbed vigorously across his unshaven cheek.

Artyom opened his eyes slightly, touched his red cheeks, rolled from the single camp bed to the floor, then stood up straight immediately, and saluted.

"Where are the weapons? Take the submachine gun and follow me!"

Artyom, who had been sleeping in full uniform and clothes, grabbed the Kalashnikov on the bed and followed the commander sleepily.

How many hours did he sleep in total?
One?two?

His mind was in a mess and his throat was very dry.

"Start..." Looking over his shoulder, the commander breathed an unpleasant breath on his face.

"What started?" He was startled.

"You'll know right away...take this magazine, you'll need it."

Tula station is very spacious, there are no extra columns on the platform, like the beginning of a very wide tunnel.

In some places faint lights flickered densely, their movements random and meaningless, as if the light source were in the hands of a child, or a monkey.

But how could there be monkeys here...

Now that he woke up, he forced himself to check the submachine gun, and Artyom suddenly guessed what happened.

Didn't hold up!Isn't it late now?

At this moment two more soldiers rushed out of the soldiers' room to join them, equally sleepy.

An unusual ominous scream suddenly sounded in the heavily oxygen-deprived air.

Not a shout, not a wail, not a command signal...

It was the groans of hundreds of people intertwined, full of despair and panic.The sound of groans intertwined with the sound of iron rubbing came from two, three, ten places at the same time.

The platform was filled with crumbling tents full of holes, collapsed sentry booths for people to live in - they were all assembled from metal plates and subway train iron sheets, as well as counters made of plywood, which were used by people. Discarded odds and ends...

The commander walked through the piles of garbage like an icebreaker sailing through the ice.

Artyom and two others followed the path he had blazed.

In the darkness, a truncated train set appeared on the road on the right: the lights in the two carriages had been extinguished, and the opened doorway was blocked by blocks, and inside...

Boiling, boiling, and stewing hideous crowds behind dark glass.Dozens of hands, clutching the rickety fence tightly, shook it desperately, making the fence rumble.

Beside each passage stood soldiers wearing gas masks and holding submachine guns. They carried the butts of their guns and walked slowly towards the collapsed black doorway.

Elsewhere, on the contrary, guards were pulling out all the stops to calm the stormy, angry sea of ​​people trapped in the tin boxes.

But is there anything else that people trapped in the car can think of?

They were herded into carriages because they had escaped from special isolation areas in the tunnels, and because their numbers were growing and the infected outnumbered the healthy.

In fact, there are many more.

The commander passed the first car, then the second, and Artyom finally understood why they had come in such a hurry.

At the last door, the cyst had ruptured, and strange creatures kept pouring out from the carriage—they stood on their legs with difficulty, their faces were swollen beyond recognition, and their hands and legs were swollen. Terribly.

No one had time to escape: all the machine gunners had gathered at the door.

The commander broke through the siege and appeared at the forefront.

"I order all the patients to return to their positions immediately!" He drew the Stech gold pistol from the holster on his waist.

The infected person closest to him struggled to lift his swollen head, which was several feet heavy, and licked his cracked lips.

"Why are you treating us like this?"

"As you know, you are infected with an unknown virus. We are looking for a drug ... you have to be patient."

"You're looking for a drug," the patient repeated. "Ridiculous."

"Please return to the carriage immediately." The commander exaggeratedly slammed the safety on the pistol, "I'll count to ten, otherwise I will shoot. One...".

"You just don't want to deprive us of hope. Before we die, you are still thinking about how to control us..."

"two……"

"It's been a day and night that no one has brought us water. What's the point of giving water to people who are sure to die..."

"The guards were afraid to go near the gate, and two got infected just like that. Three..."

"The car is full of dead bodies. We stomped on other people's faces. You know that nose-squeaking sound? If it's a child's, then..."

"There's nowhere to put their bodies! We can't just set them on fire. Four..."

"The carriage next door is even more crowded. The dead are next to the living, shoulders to shoulders."

"five……"

"Oh my god, don't shoot us! I also know that there is no medicine at all, and I am going to die soon. I will soon feel my insides being sanded down on a huge piece of sandpaper, and then sprayed with alcohol... …”

"six……"

"It's still burning. It's like there's a group of sisters living in my head. They're greedily devouring not only my brain, but also my humanity, until all of me... Am, am, click, click, click..."

"seven!"

"Idiots! Let us out! Let us die as one! Why do you think you have the right to torture us like this! You know, maybe you yourself may have..."

"Eight! This is all for safety reasons, so that others can survive. I'm ready to die, and as for you, you plague-infected bitches, no one is going to leave here. Get ready. !"

Artyom raised his submachine gun and aimed at the patient closest to him...

God, maybe, that's a woman...

Her vest was stained maroon with pus, and her breasts, equally enlarged, towered beneath it.

He blinked and aimed the barrel at a shambling old man.

The crowd began to complain, and retreated as if they were compromising, and then tried their best to squeeze back into the space through the door, but they couldn't do it anymore—there were new infected people moaning and crying being forced out of the compartment by their own fresh pus .

"Tyrannian... What do you do?! You have been defending the living... We are not zombies!"

"Ten!" The commander's voice sank.

"Let us go!" a patient yelled with difficulty, stretching out his hands to the crowd, like a conductor of an orchestra, causing the whole crowd to riot and squeeze forward following the command of his fingers.

"shot!"

(End of this chapter)