"Ah—!" Old Veteran let out a furious roar and bolted. He knew this place was a total trap for him—had to get out of the darkness! He fired his gun, using the flashes to light his way, ducked his head, and slammed into a door. Boom! The thing flew open, and he burst into another room—still pitch black. Figures.
Yeah, this whole setup? Jack Young's playground—he'd rigged the place just how he liked it.
But Old Veteran didn't even blink: Dark? Whatever—keep moving!
He barreled to the other side, smashed open another door—still black as a coal mine. Jack Young was on him like hot sauce on noodles, landing a solid punch to Old Veteran's left arm. Old Veteran yelped but just kept running.
Legs pumping, Old Veteran sprinted—let's see how many more pitch-black rooms you've got up your sleeve!
Bang! Door number three—this time, a blast of blinding light right in his face. Old Veteran squinted—he'd run straight into a corridor! Glass wall ahead, cliff outside, and below that? An endless pit. He'd charged so hard, had to slam on the brakes before he turned into hamburger meat himself!
He stomped down hard—the floor spiderwebbed with cracks as he fought to keep his balance.
But then, out of the shadows, Jack Young slid in like a soccer star—low and slick, flat on his back, eyes locking with Old Veteran as he toppled forward. Mischief sparkled in Jack's gaze. Next second, Jack hooked Old Veteran's arms, planted his feet on the guy's waist, pulled in, kicked out—whoosh! Old Veteran went airborne.
"No!" Old Veteran shrieked as he crashed through the corridor glass—bye-bye, hallway!—and dropped into the abyss below.
For a split second, Old Veteran's eyes went wide, cold sweat pouring down. Lucky for him, the building was shaped like a giant hamburger, and their fight was on the top bun—so instead of plunging straight down, he landed on a steep slope and didn't roll off the edge.
Shhhk—bone spurs shot out from Old Veteran's wrists. He stabbed them into the wall, locking himself in place. He looked up, just in time to see Jack Young stroll over to the busted window and toss something down with a lazy flick.
—Grenade incoming!
"Son of a—" BOOM! The explosion cut off Old Veteran's curse, dust flying everywhere. Out of the haze, Old Veteran's charred body shot up the wall like a cockroach, bone spurs on hands and feet. Jack's ears perked up—super soldiers stomping in from the hallway. Looks like Old Veteran called for backup. Jack snorted, then vaulted out the window like he was late for lunch—grab, push, and bam, three meters straight up to the rooftop.
"Let's see where you run now!" Old Veteran shot up like a cannonball, landing with a thud. Sun beating down, wide-open rooftop—he was sure he could turn Jack Young into confetti!
Whoosh—Old Veteran charged onto the roof, and bam! A spinning kick nailed him in the side. Leg met bone armor, Old Veteran hit the ground, staggering. "How?!" That kick wasn't even that strong, but dang, it sent him stumbling.
"I'm starting to get it," Jack Young said, scanning Old Veteran like he had X-ray goggles. Those two kinds of energy always messed with him—red blood, green weirdness, nothing ever stuck. They acted separate, but were weirdly connected. Hit one, the other patched it up right away.
Old Veteran's body was like a tag-team wrestling match—two wills working together. Jack Young's internal boxing never landed, but now he realized he just needed the right move. The opening was tiny, but not impossible to catch.
"Die!" Old Veteran rushed in, fist cocked, swinging with a deep sonic boom. That punch could turn a guy into a meat smoothie. But Jack Young didn't budge—just raised his palm and, bam, chopped down on Old Veteran's elbow.
Splat! Old Veteran's elbow exploded like a tomato getting clubbed—green blood everywhere, chunks of flesh flying, bone poking through. "How—how is that possible?" Super soldiers were riding the elevator up, guns ready, but Old Veteran just stared at Jack Young, eyes wide with disbelief—and a good dose of nightmare terror.
Old Veteran's wound started healing, but Jack Young stood firm. Now that he'd cracked the code, Jack knew victory was his.
Meanwhile, way down at the base of the mountain, tucked away in a hidden valley, nobody had a clue there was a cave on this lonely island. Inside, pitch black—water thundered down from above, splashing into a pool. At the edge, Sophie Chow rolled over, coughed up water, and let out a string of curses.
"Ah—!" Pain shot through her—felt like her ribs were toast. Sophie's face went pale as she checked out the cave, weird sounds echoing from the shadows. Water dripped, wind howled, mixing into a spooky moan that made her shiver.
"Waaah..." This regular girl couldn't help but cry. Honestly, with a busted rib, even a tough guy would be sobbing. The more she cried, the worse it got—pain, helplessness, the works. "What am I supposed to do..." Sophie was totally lost—her wild ride through the rapids had scared her silly. "Wait!" She glanced over—Donald Zade was sprawled out, totally out cold. Through all this, Sophie hadn't let go of Donald's arm.
Sophie wiped her tears, dug into her jacket pocket, and pulled out—not a flashlight, not a first aid kit, but a platinum-blonde wig. The same prop she used to play "Bloody Queen," totally useless now. But Sophie had dragged it along this whole time, never letting go. "Your Majesty..." she whispered, jamming the soggy wig onto her head. Cold water ran down her face as she scrubbed her cheeks, her eyes steeling with resolve.
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Right then, she found something deep inside—courage.
She sucked in a breath, sweat pouring from the pain, but forced herself to stand. She marched over to Donald Zade and slapped him twice, yelling, "Wake up, you idiot!"
Donald Zade blinked awake, woozy and weak from blood loss. But his eyes snapped into focus—Sophie was holding a knife so close he could feel the blade against his lashes. Talk about close calls!
"I ask, you answer. One wrong word and I'll pop your eyeballs out!"
This girl looked totally nuts—not bluffing, either—so Donald broke out in cold sweat and nodded like crazy. "Okay, you ask."
"The zombie virus—has anyone actually been infected? How many?"
"Y-yeah, just one. Only one person!"
"Who? Where?"
"It's—him... the Old Veteran."
Sophie was about to ask more when hurried footsteps echoed from the shadows—someone was rushing over. A flashlight beam swept toward them, making her squint. "Who is it!" All her guns were gone, so she gripped her little knife tight.
But the newcomer spoke up, instantly putting Sophie at ease: "Don't freak out, it's me." Jonathan Black jogged over, out of breath—he'd clearly sprinted the whole way. "Whew, good thing you screamed a couple times, or I'd never have found you." "Boss!" Sophie was touched—never thought her boss would risk it all to come save her.
Finally back with her crew, Sophie barely had time to breathe before Jonathan Black's face darkened and he stared into the shadows. A moment later, Sophie heard it too—more footsteps, getting closer. "Is—is that Bobby and the others?" she gulped. If not, they were toast. Sophie could barely move, Donald was bleeding out, and Jonathan was the only one left who could fight. She really hoped those footsteps meant backup, not trouble.
But Jonathan shut that down with a grim look: "No way Bobby could get here this fast, and he sure wouldn't know where to find us."
If it wasn't Bobby, it had to be bad news. On this island, nobody just pops up as a friendly. But Jonathan and Sophie missed one thing—when the newcomers finally showed up and squared off with Jonathan, surprise—they weren't enemies after all.
"Scar?" Yep, it was the mercenary squad "Scar." Their tough-looking leader had even cameoed in one of Donald Zade's videos. Seeing Jonathan Black and Sophie Chow holding a knife to Donald, Scar's boss frowned and couldn't help blurting out, "What the hell is going on here?!"