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

The metal frame of the instrument, carrying all of Sam's anger and fear, struck the gunman's right arm, which was gripping the gun.

A muffled clang of metal clashing broke the hissing of chlorine gas in the preparation room, and also made the gunman's right hand holding the gun tremble, the gun barrel hitting the edge of the steel table at an angle.

The cold, damp sensation from the high-pressure carbon dioxide jet still lingered on the gunman's face and upper body, while the yellowish-green smoke continued to irritate his respiratory tract.

The gunman let out a mumbled curse, but did not completely let go.

He staggered backward from the double attack, crashing into the instrument rack behind him, causing the glassware piled on it to shatter and fall to the ground with a crash.

The sound, however, unleashed a savage power hidden within the gunman.

He let out a beastly roar, his body twisting violently in the thick fog. The arm that had been struck him yanked back sharply, forcefully knocking Sam's instrument frame aside.

Sam didn't have time to pull back and was propelled forward by the reaction force, slamming his body into the gunman with all his might.

This was a close-quarters brawl devoid of any skill, a primal clash between two male bodies in a desperate situation.

Although the gunman's vision and breathing were impaired by the chlorine gas and the gas sprayed from the fire extinguisher, his physical resilience and strength were beyond imagination.

The two tumbled and rolled on the ground, their struggle crushing everything—metal, glass, wood chips—with a grating sound.

Lin Zheng's lungs were burning, and his throat was filled with the pungent smell of chlorine.

His left arm was still burning from where the bullet had grazed it, and every violent movement aggravated the wound.

But he did not hesitate; he knew that he could not give the gunman any chance to catch his breath at this moment.

He suppressed the nausea churning in his stomach and lunged at the two people entangled on the ground.

His target was clear: the gunman's right hand, which was tightly gripping the gun.

The gun was now half-buried in the scattered shards of glass and dust, appearing and disappearing in the dim light.

Lin Zheng had no other thoughts in his mind except the instinct to seize that deadly weapon.

Smith followed.

He threw away the empty carbon dioxide fire extinguisher, picked up a sharp-edged shard of glass, aimed at the gunman's side of the neck, and slashed it down hard.

The gunman turned his head to the side, and the attack struck his collarbone, but he seemed to feel no pain. He just twisted his body more frantically, pinning Lin Zheng and Sam down beneath him.

"Hold on tight to the gun! Don't let go!" Lin Zheng roared, his fingers trying to pry open the gunman's fingers amidst the mixed smells of blood and chlorine.

The gunman's fingers gripped the gun tightly, veins bulging, his strength astonishing.

This was a desperate tug-of-war, the line between life and death blurred in the sweat and blood of the three.

Lin Zheng's right arm, where the bullet had grazed him, was still bleeding profusely. The blood mixed with the dust on the ground and the spilled chemicals, forming a sticky, strange liquid with a rusty smell.

His strength was rapidly waning, and the chlorine gas was making him dizzy from the irritation to his respiratory tract, but his eyes remained fixed on the gun.

He saw an opportunity.

The gunman's right thumb was slightly swollen from the impact of the instrument's metal frame, causing his grip to loosen slightly at its strongest point.

Lin Zheng quickly adjusted his posture, using the force of the gunman's twisting body to forcibly wed part of his body into the gap between the two men and the ground.

He used his injured right arm to tightly strangle the gunman's neck, even though the action caused him excruciating pain from his wound.

This was almost a desperate gamble, but at that moment, he had no other choice.

The gunman, suffocating, briefly loosened his grip on the gun.

Taking advantage of the opportunity, Lin Zheng's left hand reached out to the gunman's hand and grabbed the trigger guard of the gun.

Sam's strength came into play; he clung tightly to the gunman's waist, using brute force to restrict his struggles. Although he was also elbowed a few times by the gunman, he still gritted his teeth and persevered.

Smith was above, his shards of glass held tightly by the gunman, who struggled desperately to prevent him from taking them away.

The three worked together seamlessly, each fulfilling their role, demonstrating the human instinct for survival in the most chaotic close-quarters combat.

Lin Zheng exerted his strength, using his last bit of power to twist the gunman's right wrist hard, the joint making a teeth-grinding "crack" sound.

"Gun!" he roared, his voice already hoarse.

During the struggle, the gunman finally loosened his grip.

The deadly gun slipped from his hand, arcing across the ground before rolling toward the fire hydrant in the corner.

Smith reacted quickly, flipping over and lunging at the gun.

He grabbed the gun, then immediately gripped it tightly with both hands, pointing it towards the ceiling, aiming it at the gunman.

The gunman's resistance seemed to be drained away at that moment.

He coughed violently, his whole body trembling from the intense struggle, as if the effects of the chlorine gas had finally come to full effect.

Sam took the opportunity to use his body weight to press him down hard, flipping him over so that he was face down on the ground, with his hands tied behind his back.

"Help him! Quick!" Lin Zheng gasped for breath, breathing heavily.

Smith pulled a thick hemp wire from the abandoned equipment in the corner and ran over quickly.

He skillfully tied the gunman's hands behind his back, his movements clean and efficient, clearly not the first time he had done this.

He even used his knee to press against the gunman's back to ensure the man couldn't break free.

The air was filled with the weary panting of the victors and the violent coughing of the vanquished.

The three of them collapsed to the ground, exhausted, leaning against the dilapidated lab bench, breathing heavily.

Smith was pale, but his eyes gleamed with a mixture of excitement and fear at surviving the ordeal.

Sam had a deep, bone-revealing abrasion on his arm and a bruise on his forehead, but he grinned, revealing his blood-stained teeth.

Lin Zheng leaned against the wall, his injured right arm burning with pain as if it were on fire. His whole body ached and he felt weak, and the stinging pain in his lungs made it impossible for him to take a deep breath.

He felt like he was about to collapse, as if every drop of water and every bit of strength in his body had been drained in that close-quarters battle.

He took off his lab goggles, and all he could see was a blur.

His gaze pierced through the yellowish-green smoke and landed on the gunman who was tightly bound by Smith.

The gunman lay motionless on the ground, his body occasionally convulsing from violent coughing.

His face, now covered in stains and dust from the ground, had lost its previous hysterical frenzy, as if the effects of the drug had worn off.

He looked eerily calm, as if everything was over and everything had been resolved.

Lin Zheng leaned against the cold wall, the sudden drop in adrenaline making him feel dizzy, and everything in front of him became unreal.

He raised his left hand and wiped his forehead. It was cold and damp to the touch, and he couldn't tell if it was sweat or tears.

"Damn it..." Sam cursed, his voice so hoarse it was almost inaudible, but the light in his eyes was brighter than usual.

Smith looked at the two of them, a mocking smile playing on his lips.

"Now we've really turned the university upside down," he said, with a touch of bittersweet humor in his voice.

This brief period of calm did not last long.

Outside, the sound of police sirens grew louder as they approached, finally coming to a sharp halt beneath the teaching building.

"Damn it!" Sam cursed under his breath when he heard the sound.

Lin Zheng did not speak.

He knew the trouble was far from over.

Hurried footsteps came from the end of the corridor, accompanied by disordered commands.

"Get down!" someone shouted, their voice filled with tension.

The three of them almost reflexively raised their hands and lay prone on the ground, afraid that the police who suddenly rushed in would mistake them for a threat.

They finally won, but what if the police overreact and pull off an American-style Iaijutsu, ruining everything the gunman failed to do?

The dilapidated wooden door to the laboratory preparation room was kicked open, sending more wood chips flying.

Fully armed police officers filed in, carrying standard-issue rifles with their barrels pointed menacingly at the crowd.

The blindingly bright flashlights illuminated everyone and every corner, leaving no one able to hide.

"Don't move! Put your hands up!!" a hoarse voice roared, filled with vigilance and tension.

The police officer's gaze swept over the mess—broken glassware, scattered chemical reagents, overturned instrument racks, the pungent smell of chlorine, and the three men lying on the ground.

Finally, their gaze settled on the gunman who was tightly bound with wire by Smith and lying on the ground.

The gunman's body was still trembling slightly, but the violent coughing had stopped.

He slowly raised his head, the stains on his face washed away by tears and sweat, leaving several winding streaks.

His gaze passed over the legs of the campus police officers and finally landed on Lin Zheng's face.

There was no anger or resentment in his eyes, but rather a strange, almost ecstatic sense of relief.

He smiled, a childlike, innocent, and content smile.

He felt no fear despite being surrounded by heavily armed police and guns pointed at him.

He stared at Lin Zheng, his eyes flashing with an almost insane light.

He spoke in a peculiar, slow tone, as if reciting poetry; his voice was not loud, but every word was clear.

"I have already written down the truth of this world," he said softly.

The smile on his face carried a sense of compassion, yet also the air of a prophet.

"And will eventually receive the blessing of liberation."

His gaze shifted to Lin Zheng, pausing for a moment.

"And one day you will also long for this."