The Decaying Dream of America: I Assemble Corpses and Confront Madness

The crimson dawn tore through the gray curtain of the Ochre Maze State, casting distorted shadows tinged with an eerie and ominous aura. The desolate wilderness at dawn was chillingly cold, foreshadowing the even more brutal scorching heat of the day ahead.

Lin Zheng's wrists were cut deep by the hemp rope, each jolt bringing excruciating pain like being stabbed with a knife. Blood stagnates, his palms are numb, and this body, exhausted and battered, is no longer that of a starship captain, but a mortal being kneaded by the laws of the wasteland.

My stomach was empty, hunger tore at my insides. A severe headache accompanied by a pounding pulse, a burning throat, dizziness, and blood loss; I hadn't slept for days, pushing my physical and mental limits to the limit. Every step felt like walking on a knife's edge, my reason stretched taut.

Evelyn's white coat was covered in mud and stained with blood. Her hair was disheveled, her eyes were bloodshot, and her face was pale and dusty. She was no longer the calm medical officer Lin Zheng remembered, but a survivor honed by the harsh realities of the environment, driven only by instinct, yet radiating an indomitable spirit.

Her eyes were weary, yet filled with anxious stubbornness, fixed on the makeshift stretcher carried by the tribal warriors. The stretcher was bound together with withered branches and animal hides, leaving red scratches on the ground. Evelyn's breathing was shallow and rapid, each breath a silent prayer for Arthur's fading hope.

Arthur Morgan on the stretcher had an eerie, deathly pale face, his life force drained by the wasteland. The blood on his chest had congealed into a hard scab, emitting a metallic smell. His entire body was sunken, a far cry from what he had been a few days ago, reduced to a blurry human form, trapped on the edge of life and death.

His lips were cracked and purple, oozing blood, and his breathing was so weak it was almost inaudible. Each rise and fall of his chest felt like a hard-fought battle. His fingertips were cold and limp. Evelyn knew that Arthur could break down at any moment.

Lena staggered, her eyes filled with suppressed anger and resentment. Her face was covered in dust, her braids disheveled, and her clothes torn, revealing abrasions and bruises. Her steps were heavy yet showed an indomitable resilience, the defense of dignity by a space mercenary. She struggled, enduring the excruciating pain of the ropes, biting her lip, swallowing her hatred.

The thick hemp rope dug into her skin, chafing and leaving dark red marks. Her hands were tied behind her back, and her shoulders were almost dislocated. The physical pain paled in comparison to the humiliation and rage within her. She hated her powerlessness, hated the plunderers, and hated the desolate wasteland that devoured everything.

Jeremy was pale and weak, almost being dragged along by the tribal warriors. His ankle injury had worsened, and the bleeding wound attracted insects. Lin Zheng saw his blank expression and knew he was in a semi-shock state, the pain causing him to lose consciousness, his body merely mechanically following along. This zombie-like state was more heartbreaking than death itself.

The vast, barren wasteland stretched out, its ochre-colored earth dotted with withered rocks and shrubs. A thin mist hung in the air, oppressive and suffocating. This was a forbidden zone for life, an endless wasteland of death. The earth cracked like scars, the gnarled branches of the tenacious shrubs a testament to the barrenness and cruelty. There were no signs of civilization; everything had regressed to barbarism, the imprint of technological order erased. The Star Expeditionary Team struggled to move an inch in this primitive hell. Lin Zheng felt thrown into a game of survival without rules, all his modern knowledge and experience rendered laughable and useless. This sense of detachment was more terrifying than physical torture.

The air was thick with the stench of decay, a mixture of earthy sweat and the occasional whiff of blood. The odor clung to the nostrils, a constant reminder of the primal danger of the environment. Each breath inhaled brought a wave of rot into the lungs, making one nauseous.

A primal, unsettling silence enveloped everything, broken only occasionally by footsteps, shouts, and the scraping of weapons. This silence was more oppressive than any clamor, a whispered warning, brewing terror. Lin Zheng, with his acute hearing, could even hear his own heartbeat and hear auditory hallucinations.

Lin Zheng strained to look up, past the burly warrior's shoulder, and saw the leader, Brutus Grubb. The name lingered in his mind, carrying a chilling danger that matched his violent and wild image. The warrior's broad back obscured his view, but it couldn't hide the chill in Lin Zheng's heart.

Brutus Grub rode a tall, bizarre creature, its massive size and body covered in rusted metal plates and hardened keratin, exhibiting a twisted biomechanical beauty. Its back was high, its limbs thick, each step thundering. Rubies were embedded in its eye sockets, gleaming with a bloody red light, radiating a chilling, eerie aura. With each step, the ground trembled, raising clouds of red dust, its breath scorching. Its rough, savage appearance exuded the majesty of an ancient behemoth. Lin Zheng guessed it was a bio-modified behemoth or a modified machine from a lost civilization. This creature signified the complete severing of the wasteland from outside civilization.

Brutus's towering figure sat firmly on the monster's back. Beneath the iron mask, his only visible eye coldly swept over Lin Zheng, devoid of emotion. Those eyes were murky and deep, like stagnant water or a whirlpool, sucking away life. Lin Zheng met his gaze, a chill creeping up his spine and into his brain. He felt himself being measured, scrutinized, as if all his secrets were being exposed. That gaze chilled Lin Zheng to the bone, colder than any night in the wasteland, sharper than a blade. It was a gaze that didn't consider people as one of their own, as if they were merely livestock to be slaughtered. This objectification was more devastating than insults or beatings. Lin Zheng realized the complexity of fate, the conspiracies and purposes hidden within it beyond his comprehension.

Lin Zheng's throat tightened, and his reason rapidly crumbled. He saw the primal, terrifying order deep within the wasteland, whispering like ancient gods, eroding his mind and stripping him from the framework of civilization. A profound sense of absurdity surged within him; once a starship commander, he was now struggling in the mud. The rules of this land were different from what he had known. Here, there were no constraints, no temptations, no logic. It rejected definitions, following only the laws of bloodshed. What he had learned and believed in became irony here. Survival was the goal, violence was the language, and the law of the jungle was the truth. It was a canvas covered by ancient, terrifying laws, and they were merely insignificant specks of ink on that canvas. Lin Zheng inhaled the decaying air deeply, yet he still could not suppress the feeling of powerlessness.

Tribal warriors march with primitive efficiency, silent vigilance, blending seamlessly into the wilderness. They share a close, unspoken understanding, a survival instinct honed in the harsh environment. Their eyes are sharp, their movements agile, each step steady and silent.

They wore rough armor made of animal hide and bone, not merely simple coverings, but meticulously crafted pieces that combined practicality and intimidation. Each piece exuded the weight of countless battles fought. They gripped crude weapons, blades gleaming with an unsettling metallic sheen, constructed from animal bones, flint, and the teeth of unknown creatures, exceptionally sharp. The hilts were wrapped in vines and tendons. Each weapon was stained with indelible, aged blood, emanating a foul stench.

A scorching heatwave rolled across the wasteland, burning skin and searing reason. Steam rose from the ochre ground, distorting the air and blurring the distant horizon. Lin Zheng was losing an alarming amount of water; his throat burned. The sun was no longer a source of life, but a blazing inferno of judgment. A sharp pain shot through his brain; he heard the wasteland whisper, indistinct and chaotic, like countless voices clamoring simultaneously, unsettling his mind. He couldn't distinguish between reality and illusion, knowing only that the wasteland was eroding his spirit.

But he couldn't fall; he had to persevere. Arthur's faint breathing reminded him that his responsibility wasn't over. Evelyn's weary yet resolute figure, Lena and Jeremy's struggling progress, all proved they hadn't given up. As the person in charge, the clear-headed one, he had to persevere. Perseverance itself was a silent resistance, a contempt for the savage laws of the wasteland.

Lin Zheng looked down at his aching, bound hands, a mix of humiliation and helplessness tearing at his heart. He had once held the steering wheel of a starship, but now he couldn't control his destiny. But he had to live, for survival, and for those who trusted him. The pain was a sober reminder that he couldn't become numb and give up.

The ropes served as a stark reminder of the pain of living and the lives lost in the starship explosion. Those silent cries echoed sharply in the desolate silence. He carried far more than just life; he carried the weight of the past and the hope of the future. Brutus turned, his cold eyes flashing with a strange, mocking light, making Lin Zheng realize that fate was far more complex than he had imagined, and the real show was just beginning. This wasn't simply a matter of hunting and capture; it contained unknown secrets, belonging to the depths of the wasteland. Brutus scrutinized them not as prey, but as "resources" of special value. Lin Zheng felt they might have stepped into a vast hunting ground, becoming sacrificial lambs. This premonition pounded at him more than the pain of hunger.

The midday sun scorched the earth, turning the wasteland a scorched red. The air was thick with acrid, decaying dust. The temperature was suffocating, and sweat beaded on the soldiers' foreheads. Lin Zheng's cells craved moisture; his breath burned his lungs. The long trek had left his muscles aching, his bones feeling like they were about to break, his consciousness blurred, moving only by instinct. He dared not hope for water; there were no rivers here, only dust storms. Dead plants mocked his struggle, a stark reminder of the land's cruelty. The stench grew stronger, a mixture of decay and the acrid smell of blood, choking him. Lin Zheng knew his destination was near, but certainly not paradise.

The group stopped in a more desolate and open area. Before them lay a dilapidated makeshift camp, or rather, a vast junkyard. There was no shelter, exposed to the scorching sun. The air was thick with an even stronger stench of decay, swarming with flies and insects. Sparse tents, askew and covered in coarse animal hides and rags, caked with dust and grime, swayed precariously, their whimpering sounds like the shells of ancient creatures. In the camp, the emaciated refugees moved slowly among the withered grass and decaying flesh, their bodies emaciated, joints protruding, struggling against gravity. Their skin was sallow and cracked, veins clearly visible. They mechanically searched for food, like wild animals driven by predators, devoid of dignity. Their eyes were empty and unfocused, blending into their surroundings. These refugees had been consumed by despair and hunger, devoid of emotion and thought, left only with primal survival instincts. Lin Zheng looked at them, feeling sorrow and fear; he and his companions might also have ended up like this.

Lin Zheng's heart tightened. He saw a pale, emaciated child, naked, with an abnormally large belly. He listlessly gnawed at the dried roots, his eyes vacant. His fingers were deformed, and his thin body was covered in scars. This scene pierced Lin Zheng's heart like a knife, shattering his last shred of illusion about humanity. This was the reality of survival at the bottom of the Ochre Maze State—unadorned, unillusioned, only naked struggle. Survival was the theme, death the end. Dignity was trampled, morality and law were buried; only primal instincts and bloody violence offered a moment of safety. Lin Zheng understood the cruelty of the wasteland, its beautiful savagery, its life and death, pure and direct.

In the center of the camp, an altar stood starkly. Constructed from human and animal bones, mixed with dried flesh and entrails, it exuded a suffocating stench of blood. The altar's base was piled high with massive animal bones, forming a pyramid shape, the gaps filled with the remains of limbs and skulls. Above hung a row of dried "flesh and blood road signs," their twisted shapes indistinguishable, a horrifying sight in the sunlight, emitting a strong, putrid stench, like banners of death. Each piece told a story of bloody sacrifice. Lin Zheng's stomach churned. Its existence proclaimed an ancient, bloody faith, more primal and direct than any religion. This altar was the center of power, the place of judgment for life and death, declaring that everything belonged to the bloody law.

Evelyn trembled as she saw the altar, gripping Lin Zheng's arm tightly, her fingertips digging into his skin. Weariness in her eyes was replaced by fear and pain. She stared at the bone and flesh altar, the "signpost," a resistance from the depths of her soul making her unsteady. She had sworn to heal the wounded, yet what she saw shattered her beliefs. Her gaze shifted between the altar and the refugees, a conflict between her healer's instincts and reality. Her mental defenses crumbled, yet she couldn't look away, for everything before her questioned the meaning of a healer. Her cheeks were pale, her lips tightly pressed together, battling inner turmoil.

Then, an elderly woman, filthy and with gray hair, cracked skin, and sunken eyes, appeared. Her clothes were tattered, revealing her emaciated body. Her face was filled with desperate pleading, like a dying animal struggling for its life, she staggered toward Evelyn, her withered hands trembling as she reached out to her, her mouth uttering barely audible pleas for help, her voice hoarse and broken, only words like "water" and "live on" escaping her lips. A sliver of hope lingered in her empty eyes, as if she had mistaken Evelyn's white coat for salvation.

Lin Zheng saw the hesitation and pain flash across Evelyn's face. Her healer's instincts compelled her to help, but she was bound and knew that defying the laws would bring dire consequences. That helplessness filled her with more despair than any pain. However, before she could respond, a dark shadow suddenly appeared, moving with lightning speed. A tribal warrior, wielding a rough bone knife, exceptionally sharp, struck without hesitation.

The woman's whimpers abruptly ceased, replaced by a deathly scream. Her head rolled onto the ochre-colored ground with a muffled thud, and blood gushed forth instantly, forming a grotesque bloodstain. Her empty eyes held a frozen will to live. Her body was discarded like a rag doll, convulsing a few times before ceasing. The splattered blood, carrying a metallic stench, was quickly absorbed by the soil. Immediately afterward, several deformed, mutated animals arrived, emitting retching roars, greedily pouncing on the corpse and tearing at its flesh. Lin Zheng's stomach convulsed violently; nausea nearly caused him to faint.

The cruelty and callousness of this scene struck Lin Zheng's heart like a blunt, heavy hammer, leaving him deafened and dizzy. This wasn't a movie or a training exercise; it was live, breathing slaughter. The rules of the civilized world crumbled, their fragments scattered by the fierce wind. His soul was cleansed, growing cold. The woman's death was neither a sacrifice, nor a death from illness, nor an accident. She was merely a weakling, yet she was eliminated like weeds. Her death was meaningless, merely illustrating the barbaric laws of the land. It shattered Lin Zheng's understanding of the "bottom line" of survival, forcing him to confront cruelty and barbarity, a despair unlike anything he had ever felt weighing heavily on his heart.

Lin Zheng's sanity plummeted once more. His vision distorted, and the indistinct whispers in his mind grew clearer, like primal incantations repeating "survival of the fittest" and "death is the only way out." He couldn't distinguish between illusion and reality. A sharp pain pierced his brain, as if something was trying to seize his consciousness and drag him into madness. He clenched his teeth, trying to suppress his voice, but it was like a leech clinging to his bone. A primal fear rose within him, far surpassing the physical pain. The fear wasn't of death, but of losing himself, of losing his human dignity. The fear that the laws of the wasteland would assimilate them, turning them into numb refugees or cruel warriors. This fear of losing oneself was more chilling than death itself.

Evelyn trembled uncontrollably, her hands clenched into fists, knuckles white. She bit her lower lip hard, tears blurring her vision. She saw the extreme distortion of humanity and the extreme fragility of life. Then, a complex light flickered in her eyes: pity for the passing of life, despair at her own powerlessness, but even more so, determination and anger.

Lena and Jeremy's faces were etched with fear, a despair born of the utter trampling of human dignity. Jeremy let out a suppressed sob, his body trembling uncontrollably, his eyes filled with terror, a stark contrast to his usual blankness. Lena's eyes were tightly shut, unwilling to watch any longer, her body tense. The cruel scene had wounded their hearts, making them realize that the world was far more savage and merciless than they had imagined.

Brutus Grubb merely watched indifferently, as if it were a commonplace performance in the wasteland. His eyes scrutinized, assessing whether the bloody offering conformed to the savage order and whether it deterred the "intruders." Beneath the iron mask, Lin Zheng even felt a subtle pleasure. In his view, this was simply another manifestation of the wasteland's laws: the weak should be eliminated and devoured—an unchanging truth.

Evelyn looked up amidst her intense grief, her gaze shifting from the altar, the refugees, and the corpses to Lin Zheng. Despair in her eyes was replaced by a deeper, more compassionate healer's pity, a resolute resolve that transcended fear. She gripped the bandage stained with Arthur's blood tightly, the stinging pain in her fingertips keeping her conscious. Her gaze was unwavering as she looked at Lin Zheng, conveying an unquestionable conviction.

Her voice, hoarse and weak, carried an undeniable firmness, echoing through the camp and clearly reaching Lin Zheng's ears, awakening his nearly numb will. "We can't just give up on him like this," she repeated, her voice soft yet powerful, each word like a needle piercing Lin Zheng's heart, breaking through the thick fog of despair surrounding him. In that moment, Lin Zheng seemed to see new hope, a faint yet incredibly tenacious hope struggling to emerge from the depths of despair.