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

The dawn's light failed to penetrate the fortress's thick stone walls, reinforced with lead plates, plunging the entire structure into an eternal gloom. The walls here were not merely stone, but rather a living, inanimate structure built from heavy steel, rusted insulation, and peeling lead-based paint. Deep in the corridor, only a few flickering, dim yellow wall lamps clung to life, their shades covered in a layer of greasy dust, casting an unsettling, morbidly yellowish-brown light upon them.

These wall lamps are products of low-pressure mercury vapor technology left over from pre-war civilizations. The electric arc inside the tubes is extremely unstable, erupting in violent spasms every few seconds. They often emit a hoarse, jumping sound, like some dying animal desperately scratching its way through a transparent pipe, or like some old-fashioned machine trying to travel through time and screaming. In those occasional bursts of sparks, the bulging plaster on the walls on both sides of the corridor, swollen from excessive moisture, is clearly visible, appearing a dark red like rotting flesh.

The air was thicker and more viscous than in the cell, carrying a nauseating smell of lubricating oil. Because this place had once been a precision machining workshop for heavy industrial parts, the ventilation system had long been completely paralyzed by the grease buildup on the inner walls of the pipes. In the near-90% humidity, rust and grayish-green mold were frantically claiming every inch of living space, weaving a semi-transparent net on the metal pipes, as if this fortress had grown its own filter to remove the corrupting spirits from the air.

Lin Zheng felt the texture of his military boots beneath his feet as they trod on the slippery ground. Years of seepage had left layers of old, unwashable cutting oil accumulating in the cracks between the tiles. This oil had oxidized into a black, semi-solid, asphalt-like substance. Stepping on it not only provided a cold, hard mechanical feedback but also carried an unsettling stickiness, as if the floor were extending countless invisible tentacles, attempting to permanently fix every passerby in this eternal darkness. Each muffled thud echoed in the narrow passageway, stripped of all human intervention, leaving only naked oppression and desolation.

Leading the way was Brutus Grubb. His broad, monumental back appeared particularly thick in the flickering light. His bare shoulders were covered in dark purple lines, looking like old wounds or bulging veins from some strenuous physical labor. Brutus walked with extremely heavy steps; with each stride, the specially made, steel-lined soles of his shoes made the corridor ceiling tremble slightly, dust rustling down like some withered divine revelation. His breathing was heavy and rhythmic, every three breaths accompanied by a muffled thud deep in his throat, like an old blower overloaded. This biological sound, in the deathly silence, produced an eerie rhythm reminiscent of the collapse of industrial civilization.

Brutus didn't glance back even once, but his massive physique formed an insurmountable physical barrier. His pace was remarkably even, neither hurried nor slow, like a programmed steamroller. Lin Zheng knew that even if he tried to fight back now, it would be difficult to break through this man's fortified body immediately. The towering trapezius muscles around the man's spine seemed to possess some kind of independent sensory ability, subtly pulsating when they sensed the gaze focused from behind.

Evelyn Reed followed closely behind. Her white lab coat, once a symbol of purity and science, was now stained and mottled with dust and sweat, with several charred holes at the hem from contact with corrosive chemicals. Her face appeared translucent and fragile in the dim light, her slender fingers gripping the hem of her lab coat tightly with overwhelming fear; the knuckles were a ghastly white from the force, almost bursting through the thin skin. Her breathing became rapid and shallow; with each step, her lungs seemed to tremble in the murky air.

The scalpel, designated ITEM_001, tucked into Evelyn's pocket, tapped lightly against the side of her thigh as she moved. Each slight metallic clink reminded her of her profession—in this mad, flesh-and-blood wasteland, this sharp steel blade was her last remaining shred of sanity, her only line of defense against this insane world. She swallowed repeatedly, trying to ease the dryness in her throat, which felt like sandpaper from fear, and her eyes were bloodshot from constantly scanning the shadows around her.

The walls on both sides of the corridor were covered with peeling paint, revealing countless messy scratches layered on the exposed gray cement. To an ordinary person, these might just be bumps from machine handling or claw marks left during a riot, but in Lin Zheng's extremely keen vision, which was endowed with a certain dimension, the way these lines closed was extremely unnatural. They were not chaotic, but followed a spiral logic that defied human geometric intuition.

He quickly created a geometric model in his mind, reconstructing the original appearance of the damaged scratches. To his astonishment, he discovered that these scratches actually formed a topological structure in a specific spatial dimension, capable of guiding the flow of weak electrical currents. This was the most basic and also the most malevolent energy circuit in a sacrificial ritual, subtly absorbing the vitality of the living. Under Lin Zheng's gaze, the scratches seemed to emit a faint glow, like some ancient anomaly composed of geometric lines slumbering inside the building, giving them a mocking smile.

In the distance, a low, metallic rumble echoed from the ventilation duct at the end of the corridor. The frequency was extremely strange, somewhere between the groan of heavy machinery and the howl of some colossal creature. Due to the multiple reflections and resonances of the sound waves within the narrow duct, the noise became increasingly viscous. It even carried a tactile sensation of bones grinding against gears. The sound traveled along the metal floor to the soles of his feet, causing Lin Zheng to feel a wave of nausea.

Evelyn's steps faltered slightly from the sudden, unexpected fear, and her body swayed uncontrollably to the side. Lin Zheng quickly regained his balance in the darkness, extending his arm to support her trembling elbow, but remained silent. He turned his head, his baseball cap pulled low, obscuring all emotion from his eyes, except for a flash of cold rationality. He noticed that the tips of Evelyn's ears had turned a bluish-purple from the extreme cold and pressure, indicating that she was on the verge of collapse.

Lin Zheng's hand remained tightly gripping the pebble Samantha Jones had given him—ITEM_002. This seemingly insignificant pebble, in the corridor with its extreme temperature fluctuations, now emanated a constant, faint heat. This heat was unlike the warmth of flesh; it felt more like a core energy originating from some cold, orderly place. The rough geometric facets constantly rubbed against the thin calluses on his palm, bringing an unusual sense of tranquility, as if this pebble were an anchor point that could forcibly fix his consciousness in place even when a large-scale logical collapse occurred in the real world.

Samantha hadn't explained the true purpose of the pebble when she threw it, but Lin Zheng keenly noticed that whenever the eerie low-frequency noise from the end of the corridor sounded, the pebble would subtly resonate. That frequency perfectly neutralized his nerve impulses, forcibly suppressing the sharp pain deep within his brain caused by exposure to forbidden knowledge. It was more like a silent reminder: here, sensations might be deceptive; only the laws of physics and this analyzed quality were real.

As they rounded a near-lightless right-angle turn, a massive figure blocked their path like a rock rising from the shadows. It was Cross Gray, the fortress's most ruthless warden, whose intimidating presence couldn't be concealed even by the thick darkness. He wasn't just tall; his physique exuded a cold, mechanical discipline, as if he had transformed all his senses into algorithms for identifying potential threats.

The man's face was covered in striking battle scars. A gruesome, keratinized old scar stretched diagonally downwards from his forehead, across his sunken nose, and like a centipede, tearing at his jaw, making the left side of his face appear particularly stiff and disfigured in the darkness. He wore a homemade leather armor made of a mixture of rough leather, rusted reinforced iron plates, and some unknown polymer fiber, and several syringes filled with dark brown liquid hung at his waist.

A menacing-looking pre-war carbine was slung across Klose's chest. The flash suppressor had been crudely shortened, transforming it into a weapon perfectly suited for close-quarters combat suppression in the corridor. Klose raised his bloodshot, slightly unfocused eyes, his gaze coldly shifting from Lin Zheng's flawless chest to Evelyn's violently heaving chest. This gaze contained no lust for the opposite sex, but rather resembled that of a seasoned butcher, already experiencing professional burnout, listlessly surveying livestock awaiting dismantling on the chopping block, yet one that had to be handled with care.

"This is the so-called 'doctor,' and her henchmen? Does the warden really think these two cowards who can't even hold a gun properly can repair your body?" Cross's voice was deep and grating, with a hoarse quality characteristic of long-term use of high-strength chemical cigarettes. Each word was like shards of glass being repeatedly rubbed on dry sandpaper, stirring up waves of emotion deep within the listener's nerves. His words were filled with extreme indifference to life.

Brutus responded with a brief, low nasal sound, like two massive stone tablets colliding. His heavy boots continued to pound the ground without pause, leading this strange squad of prisoners, madmen, and guards toward the deepest part of the corridor, into the ultimate darkness beyond the reach of even the faintest wall lamps.

Klose casually shifted the rifle on his back to a more convenient position. He silently joined the rear of the escort, his steps steady and rhythmic—the hunting stance honed by a professional soldier through years of killing. He deliberately maintained a standard, safe firing distance of about three meters from Lin Zheng in front of him—the optimal observation distance to avoid being drawn into hand-to-hand combat in case of an emergency. His gaze, like a venomous snake, was fixed on the back of their necks, the chilling killing intent materializing into goosebumps on his skin.

At the far end of the corridor, the door to the examination room finally came into view. Rather than a door, it resembled a massive, circular, pressure-tight valve forcibly salvaged from a long-lost, decommissioned nuclear-powered submarine. The heavy brass handle was worn smooth, and a faintly blue fluorescent grease seeped from the valve's gaps. The once vibrant red cross in the center of the valve was now eroded beyond recognition due to age and frequent disinfection and wiping.

Instead, dozens of layers of dried blood covered the surface. Due to varying exposure times, the blood exhibited complex colors ranging from dark black to purplish-red, layering and intertwining to form a dark red, twisted pattern resembling tree rings or a dense cluster of mycelium. Clinging to these bloodstains were substances resembling shed scales, reflecting unsettling iridescent hues in the shadows, as if something beyond the definition of modern medicine lurked behind the door.

Before even stepping inside, a suffocating, complex odor wafted out from the gaps in the sealed door, assaulting the newcomer's nostrils like a transparent wall. It was the smell of highly concentrated formaldehyde, mixed with the pungent odor of cheap alcohol, and the putrid smell of decaying organic matter and flesh charred by high-voltage electricity. Beneath these layers of stench lay an indescribable, sticky, sweet-smelling odor of biological metabolic byproducts.

Lin Zheng's perception of the environment became exceptionally sharp at this moment. Through the concentration distribution of these odor molecules, he clearly realized that the metabolic density of the organism behind the door had reached an extremely terrifying critical point. This was by no means the metabolic rate that an ordinary organism should have; rather, it was more like ten thousand hearts beating together at a frantic, synchronized frequency in the same small space, generating heat that even caused a slight distortion in the air near the door.

Brutus stretched out his large, calloused, and cracked hand and abruptly twisted open the heavy, disc-shaped lock. The grinding sound of the lock echoed in the silent corridor like the chewing of a monster. As the lock fully disengaged, a chilling surge of high pressure released a thick white mist—the product of the clash between the temperature-controlled environment of the examination room and the humid air outside. The mist quickly engulfed their knees, as if behind the door lay an otherworldly battlefield.

As the thick fog enveloped them, the world behind the door slowly unfolded before them. At the center of the examination room was not a neat medical platform, but a twisted, iron-gray operating table, its surface marked with hammer marks. To prevent the patient from overturning the bed during inhuman, violent spasms, its four heavy legs, each as thick as a bowl, were deeply embedded and forcibly welded to the underlying reinforced concrete structure. The surrounding floor tiles were covered with spiderweb-like radial cracks, indicating that this place had withstood unimaginable explosive force.

A thin, dark figure crouched beside the operating table, her movements stiffened by repetitive mechanical actions. The rag in her hand, soaked to a thick, dark purple, was being used to wipe up a pool of undefined, viscous fluid on the floor. Due to excessive labor and prolonged exposure to immense mental stress, Mia Grey's faded old nurse's uniform had gritty fuzz at the collar, and her back was soaked with sweat, revealing the pale skin beneath.

As the heavy thud of the gate opening, accompanied by a whistling sound of air pressure, reached her ears, Mia's arm, holding the copper basin, trembled violently uncontrollably. With a few crisp clinking sounds, the dark red liquid inside, already greenish from deep oxidation, nearly splashed onto Kross's cold military boots. Kross merely frowned coldly; the menacing aura emanating from him made Mia quickly lower her head, wishing she could transform into a wisp of smoke and shrink into the shadows of a corner.

On one side of the operating table, large enough to restrain a raging beast, Lord Percy leaned back. He wasn't sitting on any comfortable furniture, but rather half-embedded in a bizarre chair pieced together from the spines of some unknown gigantic creature. The ghastly white bone spurs undulated along the edges of his wrinkled skin; rather than him sitting in the chair, it was as if some remnant nervous system of the chair was deeply integrated with his flesh.

Percy's prosthetic eye, crudely crafted from altered black ore, was glaringly obvious in the dimly lit examination room. It wasn't some sophisticated artificial organ, but a foreign crystal, imbued with primal malice, growing within its socket. A deep, malevolent red glow flickered slowly deep within the ore's core. This wasn't the light from some technological construct, but rather a high-frequency, abnormal electrical discharge emanating from within his skull, caused by unnatural, malignant proliferation of tissue. Each flicker corresponded to a spasm in a muscle somewhere in his body.

Lin Zheng instantly activated his True Deconstruction Ability deep within his pupils. In his vision, beneath the exposed skin of Percy's neck, where blood vessels should have been, black, root-like tissue, resembling horsehair worms, was crawling. These things were eerily translucent purplish-black, writhing according to a logic perfectly synchronized with the movement of tectonic plates deep underground. This writhing was not only consuming Percy's original life essence, but also driving a heterogeneous logic from an ancient dimension, like nails, into his biological DNA sequence.

"I only have three days left," Percy said slowly, his voice hoarse and ethereal, like dragging a heavy, rusty iron object across the bottom of a bottomless abyss strewn with rubble, the sound echoing and filled with the gritty texture of broken metal. "This so-called 'discomfort' is seeping out of every capillary, every mitochondria of my body. It's no longer my illness, but a new life taking root and sprouting within me. It's mocking me, it's corroding me."

He tried to stand up, but the movement was extremely sluggish and horrifying. Because the muscles in his limbs were no longer reacting in sync, his body resembled a stitched-together monster of flesh controlled by a dozen unrelated, terrified souls, twisting in a posture that defied normal anatomical norms, with joints bent in the opposite direction. The crisp sound of bones colliding was clearly audible in the quiet examination room.

The red light from the prosthetic eye suddenly intensified, fixing on Evelyn's face, which had turned deathly pale from physical fear, like a spotlight. Percy leaned forward slightly, his breath, a mixture of the stench of corpses and strong acidic chemicals, hitting Evelyn directly in the face: "You are the only hope in this wasteland. Samantha assured me of your abilities. Heal this 'gift,' or, take every single one of your still-functioning organs, one by one, as a late-night treat for my two henchmen."

Evelyn felt a wave of dizziness. The oppressive feeling wasn't simply from psychological fear, but rather from the powerful biomagnetic field emanating from Percy, which was forcibly distorting the air pressure and electron arrangement around her. From Lin Zheng's perspective, the space around Evelyn was now refracting visually due to the concentrated death energy, as if she were being drawn into a black vortex.

Despite a near-devastating panic within her, Evelyn's years of medical instinct allowed her to catch a horrifying detail on Percy's neck before her gaze wandered. Above the normally smooth, pulsating common carotid artery, countless tiny, needle-like, bluish-purple branches were now emerging from beneath the skin. These branches were not attached to the circulatory system, but rather, like some kind of frenzied parasitic plant, they had forcibly pierced through all of Percy's lymphatic barriers, opening and closing beneath the skin with each breath.

Lin Zheng felt the ITEM_002 pebble in his palm growing increasingly hot, as if issuing some kind of high-frequency warning. He silently turned his gaze to a pile of dusty old papers in the corner of the room. There was a stack of tattered paper documents, moldy from leaks, and the logo on the cover, though worn and covered with brown stains after decades, was still clearly legible: Ameri Dream.

This behemoth, which once held the reins of global biotechnology and promised to achieve human evolution through gene surgery, ultimately evaporated entirely in a night of catastrophe. Its logo, symbolizing the rising sun, now looks so glaring, as if the distortions throughout the room are the embers of the company's unfinished business.

"Was this originally your illegal clinic for creating monsters? These instruments don't look like they were prepared for treating patients." Lin Zheng's cold and abrupt voice rang out, breaking the almost frozen, suffocating atmosphere in the examination room. His words instantly triggered a chain reaction. Kross's right hand had already habitually rested on the grip of his pre-war carbine, his thumb skillfully and silently pushing the safety off.

"This is the sacred place where I rediscovered my 'self,' and the only altar of truth on this land." Percy let out a hoarse and bizarre chuckle. His prosthetic eye was spinning wildly due to excessive internal pressure, and the red crystals inside seemed to be boiling. A few drops of hot black liquid even seeped from the edge of his eye socket.

"Three days from now, at dusk, when the blood-red sunset has completely sunk below the horizon, I will either be able to fully control this power and regain my freedom, or..." He pointed to the thick, radiation-shielding walls around him, "The more than two thousand believers in this fortress, along with you two precious medicinal ingredients, will become my final sacrifice to this starving land. This is not just death; it is our ultimate answer to the great Hun."

Having said that, he waved his right hand, which was wrapped in thick black bandages and whose fingers had become extremely long due to secondary bone development. Brutus and Cross quickly closed the encirclement, forcibly imprisoning Lin Zheng and Evelyn in this narrow compartment filled with the stench of blood and the atmosphere of old science. As the heavy disc-shaped wheel of the sealed door closed again with irreversible force, the clanging sound of metal parts clashing echoed for a long time in the empty room.

Exhausted, Evelyn nearly slumped down beside the operating table stained with dried blood, gasping for breath in the formaldehyde-scented air. Mia Grey approached, trembling, and murmured in a low, tearful voice, "Don't waste your energy... The six doctors who were captured before, they thought they could cure him, but in the end they all became fertilizer in the mass grave on the back mountain. Here... there's no medicine, only corrupted miracles and cannibalistic shadows."

Lin Zheng looked down at the pebble in his hand, which was gradually returning to normal temperature. The geometric lines etched on its surface shifted in the dim light, vaguely piecing together a miniature 3D map, pointing to the connection between this industrial fortress and the unspeakable entity beneath the surface, in the abyss's fissures. To survive, they had to, within the seventy-two hours before the prosthetic eye completely shattered, use Evelyn's scalpel and this stone, symbolizing their coordinates, to excise the mad tumor called "Divine Revelation" within this desolate reality.