Super Trick or Treat System

The surviving city of Popolak recovered from the first convulsion just a few yards away. It stared at the ruins of its ritual enemy with a thousand eyes. Now the ruins are wrapped with ropes and corpses, wrapped around the ground that was hit, broken forever. Staggered, his broad legs flatten the flat forest, and his arms waved the air. But it kept its balance. Even though it was a common mental disorder, it was awakened by the terror under its feet, passing through the bones and condensing the brain. The order was issued: The corpse jumped up from the dirty carpet in Podujevo, twisted, turned, and fled to the mountain.

When it drove into oblivion, its towering form passed between the car and the sun, casting its cold shadow on the **** road. He couldn't see anything in tears, and when he opened his eyes wide, he couldn't see the sight he was worried about around the next curve, but dimly found that something was blocking the light for a minute. Maybe it's the cloud. A flock of birds.

If he raised his head at that moment and only glanced at the northeast secretly, he would see the head, the huge and crowded head of a crazy city, disappear under his sight and step into the hill. He will know that this territory is beyond his understanding. And there is no room for healing in this corner of hell. But he did not see the city, the last turning point between him and Mick passed. From now on, like Popolak and his dead twins, they are lost in reason and all hope of life.

They went around the bend, and the ruins of Podujevo were faintly visible.

Their domesticated imagination had never imagined such a cruel scene.

Perhaps on the European battlefield, there are many corpses piled together: but are so many women and children locked with the corpses of men? The dead are piled up like a mountain, but have so many lives been flooded recently? There was once a city was wasted at such a rapid rate, but is there a city lost because of simple gravity?

This is a scene beyond disease. Faced with it, the speed of the brain slowed down the pace of the snail, and the power of reason grasped the evidence with careful hands, looking for the flaws, where it can be said: This did not happen. This is the dream of death, not death itself.

However, reason cannot find weakness in the wall. It is indeed death.

Podujevo has fallen.

Thirty-eight thousand seven hundred and sixty-five citizens were scattered on the ground or thrown into a large pile unknowingly. Those who did not die from falling or suffocation are dying. Apart from the group of onlookers who went out to watch the game, there were no survivors of that city. Those handicapped, sick, and ancient few people are now, like Mick and Judd, staring at the massacre, trying not to believe it.

Judd was the first person to leave the car. There was coagulated blood on the ground under his suede. He investigated the massacre. No wreckage: No signs of a plane crash, no fire, no fuel smell. There are only thousands of fresh corpses, whether naked or dressed in the same gray, men, women and children are the same. He could see that some of them were wearing leather seat belts fastened to their upper chests, and what slipped out of these devices were the length of the rope, the number of miles and the number of miles. The closer he looked, the more he could see the extraordinary system of knotting and tying that still tied the bodies together. For some reason, these people are side by side. Some people are yoke on the shoulders of neighbors, straddling them like boys riding in a circus. Others are tightly locked and woven with ropes in the walls of muscles and bones. Others were tied to a ball with their heads tucked between their knees. All of them are connected to their companions in some way, as they are tied together in some crazy collective slavery game.

Another shot.

Mick raised his head.

Across the field, a single man in a monotonous coat walked through the corpse with a revolver and dispatched the dying person. This was a pitiful act of compassion, but he continued, choosing the suffering child first. Empty the revolver, fill again, empty, fill, empty-Mick let go. In the groan of the injured, he shouted loudly.

"what is this?"

The man raised his head from his appalling mission, his face was dark gray like a coat.

"Huh?" he muttered, frowning at the two intruders through thick glasses.

"What's going on?" Mick shouted at him. It feels good to yell, and it sounds good to be angry with that man. Maybe he should blame it. As long as someone blames it, that would be a good thing.

"Tell us-" Mick said. He could hear his voice crying. "Tell us, for God's sake. Explain." The gray jacket shook his head. He couldn't understand what the young idiot was saying. He speaks English, but nothing more. Mick started walking towards him, feeling his eyes all the time. The eyes are like black shining gems inlaid on the intermittent face: looking down at him, sitting on the severed head in the seat; there is a solid cry in the eyes; the son in the eyes exceeds the voice, no breathing . He reached the gray coat, his gun was almost empty, he took off his glasses and threw them aside, he was crying too, small twitches passing through his awkward body.

At Mick’s feet, someone was reaching for him. He didn't want to look, but he touched his shoes, he had no choice but to see its owner. A young man lying like flesh, every joint was smashed. A child was lying under him, her bleeding legs poking out like two pink sticks.

He wanted the man's revolver to prevent his hand from touching him. Even better, he wants a machine gun, a flamethrower, and anything that can eliminate pain.

Lifting his head from the broken body, Mick saw the gray coat raising the revolver.

"Judd-" he said, but when the word left his lips, the muzzle of the revolver slipped into the mouth of the gray jacket and the trigger was pulled.

The gray coat has saved the last bullet for himself. The back of his head opened like a fallen egg, and his skull flew up. His body sank limply to the ground, the revolver still between his lips.

"We must-" Mick said this to anyone. "we must……"

What is the top priority? What should they do in this situation?

"We must-Judd is behind him. "Help -" he said to Mick.

"Yes. We must get help. We must-" "Go."

go! That is what they must do. They must use any excuse, for any fragile, cowardly reason. Leave the battlefield, get rid of a dying hand, and replace the body with the wound.

"We must tell the authorities. Find a town. Get help-"

"Priest." Mick said. "They need a pastor."

It's ridiculous to think of giving so many people the final ceremony. It will need an army of priests, a water cannon filled with holy water, and a speaker to announce the blessing.

Together they turned around from the terror, wrapped their arms around each other, and then drove along the carnage towards the car.

It was occupied.

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