Chaotic Battle (Part 2) - Bonus Chapter for Reaching 64th Place on the New Male Authors Ranking

Viper crouched behind the gray SUV, gripping a Glock 17 in his right hand as he wiped the blood from his face with his left.

It was from a shard of glass.

A shot had come from who knew where and shattered the side mirror. A shard had grazed his cheekbone, leaving it stinging like fire. But he couldn't worry about that now.

Something was wrong with the battlefield. Very wrong.

At first, everything had been normal. A Rainstorm Gang action squad and a Crips gun team had suddenly run into each other on this street, and a firefight had broken out. Each side had seven or eight people, and they'd been trading shots evenly.

The Crips had charged from the Church, while the Rainstorm Gang held the right side of the street.

Viper had already emptied two magazines and taken down at least one Crips bastard.

Then things started getting strange.

"Behind us! Someone's behind us!"

One of his Latino gunmen suddenly shouted.

Viper turned and saw five people vault over the low wall and charge toward the Rainstorm Gang's rear flank.

Five Black men, dressed in Crips colors... blue and black. Some wore blue bandanas. They were clearly Crips reinforcements.

Viper cursed and sent three men to hold off the rear attack.

But the way those five fought made him frown. They didn't seem normal.

The one leading the charge moved with practiced skill, running low, finding cover, firing... like he'd been a soldier.

That wasn't unusual. The Crips had veterans, too.

But the second one was wrong.

He ran in a lopsided way, like some bystander who'd wandered into a gang shootout, but his hands didn't shake when he fired. He was slow to reload, but he followed all the right steps.

The third and fourth were even more outrageous.

They raised their pistols and fired full-auto at the Rainstorm Gang in the middle of the wide-open street. They didn't take cover or even try to dodge, as if they didn't care whether they got hit.

Viper watched with his own eyes as a bald man in a black T-shirt stood in the middle of the open ground, legs spread, holding a Glock one-handed. He fired off an entire magazine—ratatatat—and only then slowly crouched down.

"Are these guys fucking crazy or just stupid?"

The fat man beside Viper muttered.

"They're high."

Viper stared at the bald man and made his judgment.

"You'd have to be high as hell not to give a damn about dying."

The fat man nodded, finding the explanation perfectly reasonable.

Addicts really did act like lunatics after getting high. They couldn't feel pain and didn't care whether they lived or died.

But Viper noticed another detail, too. Not one of the five had shouted a single time. They were like five silent machines, charging out and firing.

Viper saw the bald man standing in the open get hit in the chest... at least three times. His chest was a bloody mess.

He fell.

Then he stood back up.

Viper blinked, thinking he'd seen it wrong.

No, he hadn't.

After falling, the bald man lay facedown on the ground for four or five seconds. Then he got back up, raised his gun, and kept firing.

Blood was still pouring from his chest, and his movements had clearly slowed, but he kept shooting.

It wasn't until another shotgun blast turned his chest into a sieve that he finally stopped moving.

"Fuck, these lunatics got so high they lost their minds!"

The fat man cursed, a trace of unease in his voice.

"They still won't die."

Viper didn't answer.

He'd seen people high on drugs—PCP, meth, cocaine. When they got completely wasted, they could keep charging even after being shot. But he'd never seen many who could take three bullets and then get back up and keep fighting.

Maybe it was some new, especially potent stuff.

Then the Crips launched a frontal charge from the other side.

Four Crips came charging from the Church, armed with MAC-11s, Smith & Wesson pistols, revolvers, and Double-barreled Shotguns. Their firepower was fierce.

Viper's frontline was pinned down so badly they couldn't raise their heads.

He was just about to adjust their formation when gunfire suddenly rang out from behind the Crips.

Viper peered out.

A man wearing a skull mask stood behind the Crips' flank, firing a pistol.

He wore a dark hoodie, but the hood was down, revealing the brim of a baseball cap. The mask covered the upper half of his face, leaving only his chin and mouth exposed.

Viper saw his mouth... the corner of it curled slightly, as if he were smiling.

The man fired strangely, too. He didn't swing his pistol sideways like a gangbanger. He held it with both hands, in the stance of a beginner at a shooting range. His shots were just as haphazard; one even hit a flower bed.

And yet, all four Crips were dead within thirty seconds.

After finishing them off, the masked man didn't linger. He turned and retreated behind the iron fence in the Church's side yard, disappearing into the shadows.

Viper didn't recognize him.

The man had no Rainstorm Gang insignia and wore none of the Crips' colors. He seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, shot up the Crips, and disappeared.

"Is he helping us?"

the fat man asked.

"I don't know,"

Viper said.

His instincts told him not to mistake this man for a friend too easily.

These days, the only thing more dangerous than drug-crazed lunatics was a masked man whose motives were a mystery.

The battle grew even stranger after that.

The pressure on the Rainstorm Gang's front line eased... the masked man had crippled the Crips' frontal charge. But the five men behind them were still fighting.

No, not five anymore.

Viper counted the bodies on the battlefield.

Two lay in the open. One was sprawled beside a pile of discarded tires, another behind a truck, and one more... lay behind a trash can, half his face covered in blood, a bullet hole in the back of his head. His body was curled up, stone dead.

When had the enemy behind the trash can died? And who had killed him?

Viper had no idea, but a dead enemy was a good enemy.

Of the five, only the man behind the truck and the one beside the discarded tires were still moving.

Viper headed for the pile of tires first.

The most experienced gunman was kneeling behind them, loading bullets into his magazine.

Blood had soaked through half his shirt, but he was still pressing the bullets into the magazine one by one.

Viper raised his gun.

The gunman looked up at him.

There was no fear in those eyes, no pleading, no anger, no pain.

Nothing at all.

Like a corpse.

Viper pulled the trigger.

Three shots, all hitting the chest.

The gunman's body jerked backward and fell into the pile of tires. The magazine slipped from his hand and hit the ground.

But two seconds later, he moved again.

He struggled to his feet and knelt on one knee, then pulled the last magazine from his pocket and loaded it into his gun.

His movements were as stiff as a puppet's, but he really was loading the magazine.

"How much shit did this guy take?"

Viper muttered, then pulled the trigger again.

Another shot hit the man's right leg. He dropped to one knee but didn't fall, continuing to load the magazine.

He finished loading, chambered a round, then stood up.

He switched to full-auto and fired the remaining rounds in the magazine toward the SUV.

Viper crouched as bullets whizzed over his head. By the time he stood up again, the man had fallen... and this time he truly wasn't moving.

But Viper noticed that the man's face showed no expression as he fell.

From beginning to end, from the moment he charged until the moment he fell, not a single emotion had crossed his face.

No fear, no anger, no pain.

Like a mask.

A chill suddenly ran through Viper.

Even people high on drugs had crazed expressions and shouted in a frenzy. But those five had shown nothing at all, like five walking corpses.

No. Impossible.

He shook his head, trying to cast off the absurd thought.

Those guys were just high. They'd taken too much and wrecked their brains and their faces.

The one behind the trash can had been so scared he'd just huddled there without firing a single shot.

Viper surveyed the battlefield.

On the Rainstorm Gang's side, the fat man was dead. The tall, thin man lay on the ground with a bullet in his chest. The one whose ear had been torn off was either dead or alive.

Viper was the only one still standing.

On the Crips' side, a pile of bodies lay beside the flower bed. They were all dead.

Of the five Crips gunmen in the rear, four were down. The last was behind the truck... shot in the leg, but still moving.

Viper approached carefully, his pistol raised.

He walked up to the man lying beside the truck and looked down at him.

The man wore a filthy jacket. His right hand was broken, and he'd been shot in the shoulder and lower leg. He was covered in blood.

But his eyes were open.

There was no fear in them, no pleading, no anger, no drug-fueled excitement, no despair, no madness.

Nothing at all.

Viper raised his Glock 17 and aimed at the back of the man's head.

Then he heard gunshots behind him... coming from the rear flank.

Viper felt bullets pass through his body, one, two, three... He lost count. It felt as if someone had shoved him from behind, and he fell forward.

He landed beside the man by the truck, facedown, blood pouring out beneath him.

With the last of his strength, he turned his head to see who had shot him.

He saw him.

The man in the skull mask stood on the steps by the Church's side entrance, a gun in his right hand, its barrel still smoking.

The brim of his baseball cap was pulled low. The mask covered most of his face, leaving only his mouth exposed.

That mouth was smiling.

A polite, gentle smile.

Viper thought of the five silent men who hadn't feared death, the ones who could get back up and keep fighting after being shot.

But the masked man's smile unsettled him more than all five of them put together.

His consciousness began to fade. He heard the Church bells ring once, twice, three times.

Then he heard nothing at all.

Lin An stood on the steps by the Church's side entrance, a faint stream of blue smoke still curling from the barrel of his Glock 19.

He lowered the pistol and looked around... the battlefield had fallen silent.

Lin An didn't hurry to leave.

He tucked the Glock 19 behind his waist and quickly walked toward the open ground.

The New York Veteran Driver's body lay beside the low wall, with one bullet wound in his neck and another in his temple. Blood had spread across the asphalt, seeping into a wide, dark-red pool.

The corpse's eyes were half-open, its pupils unfocused and lifeless.

Lin An crouched and reached out to check the body's carotid pulse.

There was no pulse.

The skin was cold, and the muscles had already begun to stiffen.

This body's vitality had been completely exhausted. The fatal bullet wounds had rendered it entirely incapable of movement.

Lin An stood up and put the body into the System Store.

"Uploading one cadaver for medical students. Anyone interested can redeem it."

[The streamer's so shrewd, selling us an unwanted secondhand corpse.]

Next, Lin An quickly checked the states of the other players.

The Nightclub Security's body lay in the middle of the open ground, its chest riddled with shotgun pellets. He was long dead... collected.

The College Student's body was curled up behind the trash can, with a bullet hole in the back of his head and half his face covered in blood... collected.

Old Soldier Never Die's body lay beside the pile of discarded tires, with multiple bullet holes in his chest and a shot in his right leg. After standing up one last time to fire, he'd lost all function... collected.

Arcade Gun God was lying behind the truck. His right hand was broken, and he'd been shot in the shoulder and lower leg, but his eyes were still open.

Lin An walked over and looked down at him.

Those hollow eyes stared up at the sky, unfocused.

He reached out to check... the carotid pulse was still there, but extremely faint. This body had very little time left, too.

Collected.

Lin An took the enemy corpses as well as the players' bodies. Of course, he didn't leave the guns on the battlefield behind, either... He couldn't use weapons that had already been fired, but they were still worth exchanging with viewers, and could use up the points they had.

Before long, all that remained of this small battlefield were dark-red smears of blood and scattered shell casings. The gangsters' bodies and weapons had all vanished.

[The streamer was looting the bodies.]

[He's a pro at cleaning up the battlefield—even the bullets aren't safe.]

[He's taking the gangsters' guns too?]

[Why leave them for the police as evidence?]

[Good point. We can use them too.]

[Hurry up. The police cars are probably almost here.]

The whole cleanup took less than three minutes.

Lin An stood up and took one last look at the battlefield. All that remained on the ground were bloodstains, shell casings, and shattered glass. Not a single body was left... As for what the police would think when they arrived, Lin An didn't care. It wasn't his problem.

Just as he turned to leave,

"Bro!"

Darnell's voice came from behind him, brimming with barely contained excitement.

Lin An turned around and saw Darnell running over from beside the gray SUV, clutching a dark-colored duffel bag.

The bag was fairly large and boxy. Even holding it with both hands, Darnell seemed to be struggling.

"Look what I found!"

Darnell ran up to Lin An, his face flushed and his eyes shining like two light bulbs.

He set the duffel on the ground and yanked it open. A tempting sea of green came into view.

It was stacks and stacks of U.S. dollars, neatly packed in the bag. Each bundle was sealed in clear plastic and stamped with a bank strap. They were all old, low-denomination bills.

"I found it under the back seat of one of the cars."

Darnell panted, his voice trembling.

"I peeked inside just now. The whole bag's full of money, bro. We're rich!"

Lin An picked up a bundle and turned it over to check the bank strap and the denominations. They were all ten- and twenty-dollar bills, enough to fill the duffel to the brim.

[Ten- and twenty-dollar bills? I'd guess there's around three to four hundred thousand in that bag.]

[The streamer hit the jackpot. Those gunmen were probably an escort team carrying guns for a gang boss.]

[No wonder they fought so hard. The gunmen intercepting them were probably elite members of a rival gang.]

Reading the bullet screen, Lin An showed no excitement. He merely nodded and zipped up the duffel.

The police sirens suddenly grew clearer. They were coming from several different directions, closing in fast.

Lin An looked up toward the sound.

"Let's go."

Lin An picked up the heavy duffel, and it vanished in a flash. Then he tilted his head toward Darnell.

Darnell immediately understood and took off running.

They ran one behind the other, close to the wall, retracing their route.

Lin An ran in front, still moving at a steady pace, though much faster than before. Darnell followed, his hulking frame lumbering like a panting bear, his footsteps thudding against the ground.

They ran past the iron fence beside the church, past the low wall, and through the narrow gap between two buildings.

The bicycle was still parked in the corner at the alley entrance.

Darnell climbed on, and Lin An hopped onto the seat. Darnell pumped the pedals with his thick legs as hard as he could, the chain creaking and groaning.

The sirens grew fainter behind them.

"Bro, where are we going?"

"Abandoned Furniture Factory. We'll hide there for a while. It's not safe to go home yet."