**"Fuck you!"**
First came the zombie's roar, then Jason felt a cold hand clamp around his ankle. His instincts kicked in—he leapt back, heart pounding, just in time to avoid the snapping jaws of the undead soldier.
"You trying to bite me?! I'll kill you, you piece of shit!" Jason growled.
Furious, he stormed forward and slammed his boot down on the zombie's head. Unfortunately, he hadn't noticed the creature was still wearing a combat helmet. The impact made a loud **clang**, and pain shot up Jason's leg, making it go numb. Worse yet, the zombie wasn't dead—it just tumbled backward into the tank hatch again.
"I'm so fucking—ugh..." Jason muttered, gritting his teeth in embarrassment.
Shane and the others stood frozen, weapons drawn and ready—only to watch the zombie get kicked right back inside. They glanced at each other, confused by the chaotic, clumsy display.
"That was incredible," Glenn said with a smirk. He gave Jason a thumbs-up. "Only you would try to fight a helmet-wearing zombie with your foot. I genuinely admire the commitment."
"Get out of the way." Jason scowled, clearly annoyed by both the situation and the teasing. He pulled out a silenced pistol, opened the tank hatch, and fired directly into the zombie's skull.
**Bang.**
Jason peeked inside, and something unexpected caught his eye. "Huh?"
He climbed in, rummaged around, and came back out holding **two artillery shells** in his arms like they were precious loot.
"What the *hell*, man?!" Shane shouted. He and the others immediately scrambled off the tank, panic written all over their faces. "Put that thing down before it explodes!"
Jason rolled his eyes. "Relax. These are tank-fired shells. They won't explode unless they're armed and triggered. Come on, guys—basic common sense."
He hoisted the shells out and carefully set them aside. "Keep these. They'll come in handy later."
Jason had always had a soft spot for large-scale destruction. Why shoot zombies one-by-one when you could take out dozens in a single blast?
"Just... maybe don't wave them around like candy," Shane muttered, wiping sweat from his brow.
After getting past the tank, the group continued down the scorched street. The atmosphere grew tense as they passed burned-out buildings and collapsed storefronts. The devastation was overwhelming.
Everything beyond the tank was in ruins. Charred corpses lay scattered across the road, and a burnt-out helicopter carcass loomed up ahead like a twisted metal skeleton.
"What's this?" Moore called out from behind.
He had stepped on something metallic. Bending down, he picked it up, dusted it off, and read aloud: "**Refuge Area**?"
"What?!" everyone exclaimed in unison.
Jason rushed over to see it for himself. The sign was scorched, but the words were unmistakable: **Evacuation Zone.**
His face darkened. If this was truly a designated refuge, then what the hell had happened here? Why were there so many civilian bodies?
The group inspected the nearby corpses more closely. None of them wore military uniforms. They were all ordinary people—families, civilians—burned beyond recognition.
Jason's voice was hoarse as he spoke. "I have a theory... and I hope I'm wrong."
He swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the lifeless faces around them.
"If this really was a safe zone, and these people came here to escape... then that tank—and those bullets—weren't meant to protect them. They were used *against* them."
The silence that followed was deafening. Everyone stared at the evidence before them, their thoughts spiraling. The idea seemed insane—but the scene matched Jason's grim theory.
And sometimes, the most terrifying truths were the ones that made the most sense.
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