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

The team left the temporary camp and continued deeper into the wasteland. Dust billowed under their feet, mingling with the stench of rotting flesh and blood. A nauseatingly sweet odor permeated the air, as if countless corpses were quietly decomposing underground, releasing a sweet yet deadly poison.

Lin Zheng's wrists were inflamed from the rope marks. Every step he took pulled at his skin, and a burning pain shot through his arms like an electric current. Layers of blisters had formed on his skin, oozing yellowish pus that dripped down the rope, staining his skin with bloodstains.

His stomach felt empty and aching. He hadn't eaten anything for several days, and the hunger had turned into a dull ache, as if his internal organs were gnawing at each other. Stomach acid refluxed into his throat, and a sour and bitter taste filled his mouth, causing him to gag several times but unable to vomit anything.

The scorching sun beat down directly overhead, the heat waves distorted vision, and sweat turned into salt stains before it could evaporate, sticking to the skin and burning. Every inch of skin felt like it was being repeatedly rubbed with sandpaper, causing unbearable redness, swelling, itching, and pain.

The ochre ground reflected heat, and the soles of my boots felt like I was stepping on hot irons. Every step felt like walking on burning coals. My soles were blistered, and when they burst, they bled. The blood mixed with the dust to form a sticky mud that clung to my feet.

He was breathing rapidly, his lungs felt like they were on fire, and each breath brought in grit. His throat was dry as if sandpaper was rubbing against it, and when he coughed, it felt like shards of glass were scraping against his throat, causing him so much pain that his vision went black.

His headache worsened, the veins in his temples throbbed as if hammers were striking them, his vision began to blur, and phantoms appeared at the edge of his field of vision: twisted arms reaching out from the ground and grabbing at his ankles.

At the edge of vision, the lines of flesh and blood began to appear. These lines pulsated like blood vessels, covering every inch of the wasteland, connecting withered bones and mutated plants. The surface of the lines secreted a sticky sap, reflecting sunlight like a living iris.

The lines on the dried bones seemed to wriggle like living creatures, making a faint creaking sound, as if something was crawling inside the bones, and the bone marrow was corroded into maggot-like wriggling bodies, occasionally poking out from holes.

The mutated plant's stems are twisted into spirals, and the stems and leaves secrete a sticky substance that reflects sunlight as bright red as blood. When the sticky substance drips onto the ground, it corrodes small pits and emits white smoke.

In the air, high-frequency noise buzzed, initially like the buzzing of mosquitoes, gradually amplified into a sharp whistling sound, drilling straight into the brain, like countless needles piercing the cerebral cortex. Each climax triggered a brief blackout, and the world was turned upside down.

He staggered, his knees buckled, and he almost collapsed to the ground. His hands instinctively clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms to keep him conscious. Blood seeped from between his fingers, warm and slippery, a reminder that he was still alive.

Reason slips away like sand in an hourglass, each grain representing a sliver of mental defense collapsing. The world begins to tilt, and in hallucinations, the faces of deceased relatives and friends appear, reaching out for salvation.

Brutus rode ahead on his beast, occasionally glancing back. His single eye held a cold smile, and his gaping maw seemed to be murmuring mockery, the sound like gravel crushing glass, piercing to the bone.

Lin Zheng gritted his teeth and insisted on keeping up with the group. His teeth were grinding together, and he tasted blood in his mouth. His bleeding gums mixed with his saliva, and swallowing it felt like swallowing razor blades.

Evelyn, supporting the stretcher, walked with heavy steps. Her white coat was stained grayish-brown with dust and bloodstains. Her shoulders ached from the weight, and her muscles were strained and throbbing, but she gritted her teeth and remained silent.

Arthur's breathing was shallow and weak, his chest rising and falling slightly, each exhale carrying blood foam. His face was as pale as a dead man, his lips were purple, and the veins under his eyes were bulging.

Lina walked forward with her head down, the rope chafing her wrists, blood dripping down her arms and staining the ochre ground red. Each drop of blood was quickly absorbed by the structural lines as if by a thirsty straw.

Jeremy dragged his feet, blood seeping from his wounds. The strips of cloth on his legs had turned into a blackish-red paste, leaving bloodstains with every step. The tissue at the edges of the wounds was rolled up, revealing pink granulation tissue, and flies buzzed around him.

Knowledge of the wasteland flashed through Lin Zheng's mind, piecing together like a jigsaw puzzle. He recalled that Ochre Maze State was once a mining area on the edge of the central rust zone. After the industrial decline in the last century, the mining communities collapsed, and the proliferation of opioids led to the breeding ground of mutated creatures among the residents. The ever-present sound of digging echoed in the abandoned mines.

The tribe originated from surviving miners and wanderers who worshipped the ancient consciousness beneath the land and maintained the balance of mutation through flesh and blood sacrifices. In the sacrificial rituals, living people were buried in the ground, and their flesh and blood melted into nutrients, awakening the sleeping gods.

The sacrificial procession used flesh and blood markers to mark their territory. These markers were made from twisted corpses piled up and dried over the years into bizarre sculptures, their surfaces covered with veins that glowed like lighthouses at night.

The mutated cactus grows by feeding on decaying flesh, its spines secrete acid that can dissolve bones and flesh, and its roots, like giant mouths, devour all organic matter, making a satisfied gurgling sound as it digests, with the residue piling up into fertile soil.

These observations came from intelligence brokers in the Assemblers' Guild, who exchanged flesh and blood samples for information. The guild leader once mentioned that the flesh and blood from the Ochre District was of low quality but resistant to pollution and had a mental resistance as strong as steel, capable of withstanding three times the mental pollution of an ordinary person without collapsing.

Lin Zheng shook his head to dispel distracting thoughts and tried to focus on his steps, but the noise grew louder, and the screams of the dead piled up, as if thousands of wronged souls were wailing in his ears. Each sound carried fragments of suffering from their lives, like a film reel playing on repeat.

He closed his eyes and activated his mental re-engineering. An image of an autopsy table appeared in his mind; under the cold light, a scalpel sliced ​​through the chaotic tissue, and blood spurted out, splattering all over his virtual white coat.

The sutures are tightened to fix the structure, and each stitch is accompanied by excruciating pain, as if the mind is being torn apart and reassembled. As the needle and thread move, phantom pain travels from the fingertips to the spinal cord, causing the whole body to convulse.

Information fragments are sorted and archived, the screams of the dead are transformed into ordered pulses, and structural lines are stripped from chaos and categorized into harmless data streams.

Pain surged like a tide, each needle tearing at the spirit. Cold sweat slid down the forehead, dripping into the eyes, stinging and blurring the vision. The world in the field of vision shook as if an earthquake had struck.

My body trembled, my steps faltered, my knees buckled and I almost collapsed, my chest felt like it was being crushed by a boulder, I had difficulty breathing, my heart was pounding like a drum, and my blood was boiling and burning.

The tribal warrior shoved him, his rough, large hand like an iron clamp, scraping his skin until it bled, the finger marks digging deep into his flesh, blood gushing out.

"Go!" the soldier roared, his voice like the grinding of sand, hoarse with the unique smell of the wasteland, and hot breath smelling of rotting flesh wafting from his mouth.

Lin Zheng opened his eyes, and the noise lessened a bit, as if through a veil. The structural lines became blurred, no longer so grotesque, like the remnants of a beach after the tide has receded.

He gasped for breath and continued forward, his legs feeling like lead, each step requiring immense willpower, the ground undulating as if in response to his exhaustion.

Brutus laughed loudly on his beast throne, his voice echoing across the wasteland, deafening like thunder, making eardrums buzz.

"Softie, the wasteland eats the weak. Let's see how long you can last!" His one eye narrowed, revealing a cruel expectation, with unknown bone fragments stuck between his teeth.

Lin Zheng ignored it, focused on his breathing, and counted his heartbeats to anchor his rationality. One, two, three, four, he repeated the count over and over. Each count was like a hammer driven into his mind, solidifying his defenses.

Ahead, the bones piled up into a small mound, the white stacks resembling a tomb. The structural lines on the bones pulsate rhythmically like a heartbeat, and in the empty eye sockets of a skull atop the mound, fluorescent mycelium shimmers.

He glimpsed a human mutilated body, its ribs twisted into hooks, its internal organs covered in mycelium that glowed like flickering internal lights.

In the whispers, a melody emerges, deep and distorted like an ancient instrument, repeating and looping, penetrating to the bone marrow, each note triggering a resonance in the bones.

The stems and leaves of the mutated plants trembled, and the entire wasteland seemed to respond to the melody. The wind changed direction, and the dust swirled into vortexes, within which ghostly faces appeared.

Biological resonance reveals the laws of the wasteland; this melody is like an ancient signal, used by tribes to navigate or summon hidden power. The signal is like flesh-and-blood Wi-Fi, covering the entire Labyrinth State.

Lin Zheng noted it down without leaving a trace, pondering how to use this discovery—perhaps it was an escape key, or a way to spoof signals and disrupt tribal control.

As the sun moved westward, the heatwave subsided slightly, but the residual heat remained like a steamer, causing skin to crack and sweat to form a salt crust. When the salt crust shattered, it stung like being whipped.

The dusty path meandered, the terrain ahead undulated, revealing the outline of a canyon, whose entrance resembled the gaping maw of a giant beast.

As dusk fell, a blood-red light enveloped the earth, turning the sky crimson as if splashed with blood, a sign of impending doom. Swirling blood-red patterns appeared in the clouds.

Evelyn bent over beside the stretcher, untying Arthur's bandages. Her fingers trembled, but her movements were as precise as a scalpel, the calluses on her fingertips bearing witness to countless surgeries.

The wound was red and swollen, with black spots spreading like ink seeping in. The edge tissue was necrotic, emitting a strong putrid stench, attracting mutated flying insects that buzzed and hovered around it, their wings shimmering with a metallic sheen.

Signs of an unusual infection, resembling a pathogen unique to the wilderness, with an astonishing rate of erosion, like a living creature gnawing at the flesh, and tiny tentacles wriggling within the necrotic tissue.

She took out the alcohol bottle, poured it out, and wiped the grime. The alcohol smelled pungent and hissed as it dissolved the dirt. Arthur's body convulsed, and his limbs spasmed as if he had been electrocuted.

Arthur groaned, his body convulsing, his limbs stiffening as if in a spasm, his jaw clenched, emitting a painful groan mixed with the sound of blood bubbles bursting.

Evelyn's hands were blistered and her knuckles were white, but she persisted in cleaning every inch of the wound with gentle yet firm movements, her sweat dripping onto the wound and mixing with alcohol.

Tears slid down, mingling with the dust and leaving muddy marks. She bit her lip. (Chapter update reminder: Chapter 166 The Hourglass of Reason: Whispers of the Wasteland, reading address.) Her fingernails dug into her palm, blood seeping out, yet she remained oblivious, a memory of the healer's oath flashing in her eyes.

She used saline solution to clean away the residue, then took out the last bit of her homemade solution from her bosom and dripped it into the wound to wash away the pus and blood. The solution was quickly absorbed, and the dark spots receded slightly.

The bandages were rewrapped, layer upon layer, to secure the wound. She whispered encouragingly, "Hang in there, Arthur, hang in there." Her voice was hoarse, yet as warm as a hymn.

The tribal warriors urged them on, their whips cracking in the air, the sound of leather tearing through the air chilling.

"Hurry up, you weaklings are a hindrance! If you dawdle any longer, I'll throw you away!" the warrior roared, his face contorted like a mutated beast, scarred like a map.

Evelyn looked up and glared, her eyes burning with the fury of a healer, unwavering, her gaze sharp as a blade.

The throbbing had almost disappeared, flickering like a candle flame in the wind. She took a deep breath and continued massaging her chest to promote circulation, feeling the faint tremors under her sternum in her palms.

Lina whispered, "He can't hold on... We're all going to die here." Her voice trembled, choked with sobs, and her eyes were red and swollen with tears.

Jeremy sobbed, his legs went weak and he knelt on the ground, gagging incessantly. Dehydration had cracked his lips, his voice sounded like a bellows, and he was in excruciating abdominal pain.

Lin Zheng observed from the sidelines. Evelyn's movements were professional, revealing her experience as a forensic doctor in a public hospital. She had handled countless low-level corpses and witnessed the resilience of the ugliest side of humanity while wielding the knife.

Drug overdose, gang fights—most of those cases were classified as accidents. Her hands had roamed the cold autopsy table, cutting through countless stories of despair.

Now, as she faces a dying living person, her eyes flash with the shadows of the past, but more so with a resilient light, like the only undying flame in the wasteland.

The outline of the canyon ahead came into view, with giant cacti standing tall, reaching ten meters in height, their spines sharp as knives, their surfaces covered with veins, and their roots piled up into mounds of rotting flesh, wriggling and digesting their prey, while the remaining bones on the mounds shimmered with phosphorescence.

The whispers of the wasteland rise again, denser and more intense, layer upon layer like a chorus, structural lines like a net enveloping the canyon, each line pulsating with thirst.

Lin Zheng's rationality was on high alert, his mind was cooling down and could not be activated immediately. He forced himself to stay awake, staring at the canyon, feeling a chill down his spine and his hair standing on end as if pricked by needles.

Brutus roared forward, the monster's hooves thundering, shaking the ground, raising dust that blotted out the sky, and the structural lines in the hoofprints extending rapidly.

The team sped up, Lin Zheng's throat was dry, he swallowed without saliva, his tongue felt like cotton, hunger turned into numbness, his body entered survival mode, and instinct dominated everything.

The mental strain exhausted his physical strength; every step felt like carrying an anvil, his muscles ached to the extreme, and hallucinations began to appear: the ground cracked open, and countless arms pulled him into the abyss.

Evelyn wiped her sweat and continued nursing. Her white coat was filthy, stained with blood and mud, and her hair was a tangled mess, covered in clumps of dust like armor.

Arthur's fingers twitched slightly, a glimmer of hope appearing in an instant? Lin Zheng didn't know, but he saw a glimmer of hope in Evelyn's eyes, like a ray of dawn in the darkness.

The wasteland devours hope, the melody echoes in my mind, growing clearer and clearer, pointing towards the depths of the canyon, like a summoning bell, each beat striking the soul.

The tribe's destination might be there, at the altar? Lin Zheng guessed that the core of the mine's consciousness might be buried beneath the altar.

Brutus turned around, his one eye locking onto Lin Zheng, his scrutiny deepening, as if he had noticed something amiss. Lin Zheng's pale face was reflected in his single eye.

Lin Zheng looked away. The rope reminded him of his prisoner status, and the friction created new bloodstains. The bloodstains attracted insects that bit him, and the itching intensified the pain.

Knowledge emerges: The Ochre tribe is stratified, with the lower-level refugees offering blood and flesh sacrifices, warriors guarding the altar, and the chief communicating with the land consciousness through melodies.

Consciousness originated from a foreign object deep within the mine. After the miners unearthed it, mutation began. Blood sacrifices were used to maintain balance and prevent total collapse; otherwise, the wasteland would devour everything.

Lin Zheng tripped, and a piece of dry bone embedded itself in the sole of his shoe, its sharp point piercing through the boot. Blood gushed out, but he kicked it away and continued forward. The pain helped him stay awake, like a spur to action.

The aftershocks of noise, the lingering shadows of structural lines, mental recalibration is effective but costly, rational recovery takes time, and exhaustion overwhelms the limbs like a tidal wave.

The cacti ahead were even taller, the canyon entrance was shrouded in shadow, the wind howled like a ghost's wail, mixed with the sound of bones colliding, and the wind carried particles of rotting flesh that blew in our faces.

As the group entered the shadows, the temperature plummeted, as if they had fallen into an ice cave. Lin Zheng felt a chill run down his spine, goosebumps rose on his skin, and his breath turned into white mist.

Evelyn whispered, "Hold on." She spoke to Arthur, and to herself, her voice weak yet firm, echoing along the canyon walls.

Lena dragged Jeremy along, the two supporting each other, their steps unsteady, like candles flickering in the wind, Lena's arm muscles trembling from the effort.

The soldier's whip cracked as he lashed out, urging him to go deeper. Occasionally, the whip would graz his skin, leaving red marks; the hooked tip of the whip would draw blood if it cut him.

Lin Zheng captures more melodic fragments, which are like codes, biological responses, and the resonance of life in the wilderness. Tribes use this to control the ecology, like a shepherd's horn.

Practical knowledge, key to survival, and perhaps even the ability to fake resonance to escape, he silently memorized the rhythm and repeatedly practiced humming it in his mind.

Brutus ordered a halt, a brief respite, and as if by divine intervention, the warriors sat around sharing dried meat, their rough chewing sounds mingling with whispers.

Lin Zheng knelt on the ground, his hands supporting him, panting heavily. The ropes pulled on his shoulders, his joints cracked, and his bones creaked in protest.

He regained his strength, felt his heartbeat calm down, and sweat dripped into pits, where structural lines quickly accumulated.

Evelyn examined Arthur's pupils; they showed clear signs of dilation. She murmured forensic terminology: "Pressure signs of shock, diminished light reflex." Her voice was professional yet desperate.

Without equipment or intervention, environmental pathogens proliferate, and the ochre soil is rich in heavy metals, causing infection to accelerate like wildfire, leaving the body with zero resistance.

She used bandages to shield Arthur from the sun, her movements as delicate as a mother's, the bandages wrapping him up layer by layer like a cocoon.

Jeremy vomited yellow-green bile, was severely dehydrated, had dry, cracked, and bleeding lips, and his vomit contained streaks of blood.

Lina shared his weight, their mutual support a glimmer of light, flickering in despair, a brief warmth like a dream in the wasteland.

Lina shared his weight, their mutual support a glimmer of light, flickering in despair, a brief warmth like a dream in the wasteland.

Lin Zheng stood up. The inner wall of the canyon was covered with cracks, and vines pulsed in the cracks, stretching out like tentacles. The structural lines were dense like a spider web, capturing the remains of small animals.

The source of the whispers may be there, the melody growing stronger, echoing between the walls, like a symphony reaching its climax.

Brutus distributed dried meat, foul-smelling, hard chunks, like dried offal. Lin Zheng chewed it down, swallowed it forcefully, barely managing to fill his stomach, which churned like boiling water.

Evelyn fed Arthur the remaining fluid from the water sac, dripping it between his lips. He didn't react, but his throat moved slightly; a glimmer of hope appeared in the corner of her eye. .

As the last rays of dusk faded, the canyon was plunged into night, darkness engulfing everything like ink, and the stars disappeared into the blood-red clouds.

The warriors lit torches, the flames reflecting off the cactus thorns, casting distorted shadows like ghostly dances, the flickering firelight stretching out the fear, and revealing the ancient carvings on the wall.

As the march continued, Lin Zheng remained alert, his senses sharpened after the recalibration, allowing him to detect subtle changes in the background noise of the wasteland, like the rhythm of a heartbeat.

Tribal migrations and the depletion of mineral veins have given rise to a new vein with a powerful consciousness. It is awakened by flesh and blood sacrifices. These people are priests and hunters, and the tattoos on their bodies are musical scores.

The value of the prisoners was unclear; perhaps it was for the purity of their flesh and blood, or for testing their resistance to foreign substances. Lin Zheng became wary and pretended to be weak to cover it up.

Lin Zheng glanced at Evelyn; her eyes were resolute, her medical instincts sustained her, sweat dripped down but she never stopped, and the veins on the back of her hands bulged.

Arthur's pulse steadyed for a moment, then weakened, and despair echoed like a whisper in the wasteland, while endless torment swirled like sand in an hourglass.

The altar ahead flickered with firelight, its crimson glow piercing the darkness, and the stench of blood intensified in the air, like a slaughterhouse welcoming guests.

As they drew closer to their destination, Lin Zheng's heart raced, his adrenaline surged, and he felt a mixture of fear and anticipation.

Brutus accelerated, his hooves pounding the ground, dust billowing up again, obscuring vision like an apocalyptic sandstorm.

Lin Zheng followed closely, his rationality continuing to slip away like an hourglass, but his will was as strong as steel, never faltering, his firm steps crushing the withered bones.

Deep in the canyon, the echoes grew louder and louder, the melody reaching its climax. The wasteland seemed to be awakening, welcoming the offerings, and the ground trembled slightly like a heartbeat.

Lin Zheng thought to himself, this melody is not only a key, but also a shackle, a tribe enslaving the wilderness, chasing shadows.

Evelyn bowed her head and murmured a prayer, her faith as a healer unwavering. Arthur's fingertips trembled slightly again; perhaps it was an illusion, perhaps a miracle.

The warriors' song began, a rugged chorus melody, which was echoed by the beasts, resonating like thunder throughout the canyon.

Lin Zheng listened intently, analyzing the rhythm. Opportunities might arise from the chaos. He took a deep breath of cool air, preparing for his final gamble.