Chapter 111: The Hunt

When Joey dragged her injured arm and stumbled back to her grandmother’s house, she was so exhausted she nearly fainted. In the span of just a few hours, she felt as though she had lived an entire lifetime, having witnessed people being murdered right before her eyes, followed by a car explosion.

Fortunately, she was small; the bomb had detonated far enough away that the blast had simply propelled her out through the car window. The immense initial velocity and impact had left her with extensive soft-tissue bruising and a repeatedly dislocated right arm. Deep gashes marred her skin, and though she had managed to constrict the blood vessels with her sleeve, the wounds continued to bleed profusely.

Joey was nearing a breakdown. She could not comprehend what had happened to the world. Why couldn't everyone just get along peacefully as they always had? Why had such horrific events suddenly erupted? She couldn't understand it, and she didn't want to.

Panic and terror flooded her mind. When she regained consciousness after blacking out, only one thought remained: she had to find her grandmother. Only she could protect her. Stealing a bicycle from a house, Joey had forced her nerves to hold steady, driven by a tenacious will to survive, as she pedaled toward her grandmother’s home.

Inside the grandmother’s house, the old woman wore a cold, stern expression. She had pulled her hair—usually left loose—into a tight bun, swapped her loose clothing for a high-end bulletproof vest, and reopened the basement door in the laundry room.

The weapon cache, sealed for days but perfectly maintained, was hauled out. With her daughter looking on in speechless confusion and her son-in-law completely bewildered, the old woman swiftly distributed the weapons and assigned defensive positions.

Sarina, her daughter, was instructed to take up a powerful shotgun, just like her mother, and guard the basement, keeping the barrel trained on the low entrance. She was to fire the moment anyone appeared. The grandmother moved out to a "foxhole" she had prepared beneath the dining table, hiding the slender barrel of her rifle among a pile of clutter. A tablecloth draped down, partially concealing the debris. Directly in front of the muzzle was a narrow doorway; it was the only path into the laundry room.

The walls of the laundry room had been specially reinforced; when building it, the grandmother had even installed steel plates. Its durability rivaled that of a military bunker. Standard firearms would have no effect on it, and one would need depleted uranium rounds to pierce through. To defend against Max, her arch-nemesis, the old woman had gone to great lengths.

Her daughter had undergone rigorous training as a child; her psychological resilience and marksmanship were impeccable. The son-in-law was a different story. He was merely a pathetic programmer, a nerd back in school who belonged to the group bullied by the school toughs. He had never even touched a gun, let alone fired one. Knowing he was useless, the old woman had simply tossed him a revolver, as it was stable, reliable, and neither jammed nor went off accidentally.

The son-in-law stared at the revolver in his hands, completely lost. Ever since he had married, he had known the old woman was a bit eccentric, always surrounded by firearms and practicing diligently every day, as if constantly preparing to fight for her life. His wife had complained about this more than once. Though he would offer a few words of comfort, he had never truly taken it to heart. He never expected that on Halloween, his mother-in-law would suddenly transform into a hardened warrior and hand him a gun. What on earth was this old woman planning?

Sarina focused on controlling her breathing, too preoccupied to pay attention to her useless husband. She knew a fierce battle was imminent, but she struggled to calm her mind because her precious daughter had not yet returned. Suddenly, Sarina opened her eyes and asked, her voice laced with anxiety, "Mom, will Joey be alright?"

The grandmother’s voice came back through the copper pipes—steady and powerful, devoid of unnecessary emotional fluctuation. Hearing her voice, one could easily visualize her holding the shotgun, calmly aiming at the narrow doorway, ready to pull the trigger at any second. "Don't worry. The police have already gone to pick her up. Max’s primary target is me. As long as they don't provoke him, they won't be in danger."

"But—" Before Sarina could finish, a sound came from the first floor. A small figure staggered into the house. She opened her mouth as if to call out, but her legs gave way, and she collapsed to the floor.

*Thump.* The room fell instantly silent.

A few minutes later, the grandmother crawled stealthily out of her foxhole, weapon in hand, searching the area with caution. Upon reaching the living room, she suddenly spotted Joey, covered in blood and in a wretched state. The old woman was startled. She performed a quick perimeter check, and finding no one else around, she leaned down to check on Joey.

"Joey? How did you end up like this?"

Joey opened her mouth, clearly too weak to speak. The grandmother waved her hand. "Alright, I know. You must have run into trouble. Don't say anything for now; let me treat your arm first."

Hearing Joey’s name, the couple hidden in the basement could no longer hold back. They scrambled out and rushed into the living room. Seeing Joey on the verge of death, their eyes welled up with tears. Sarina started to rush forward, but the old woman barked an order for her to get the medical kit immediately, then told her son-in-law to help lift Joey.

The grandmother quickly inspected the arm, identified the dislocation, and with a swift pull, a twist, and a nudge, popped it back into place. Joey let out a sharp cry of pain. Sarina hurried to clean her daughter's wounds and apply a simple bandage. While the grandmother kept watch, she helped Sarina carry Joey back into the basement.

The son-in-law felt a pang of heartache for his daughter but couldn't help with the medical work. Seeing the door left ajar, he instinctively walked over to close it. However, just as his hand touched the handle, a cold palm suddenly grabbed him.

The son-in-law shrieked in terror. He looked up to see a burly man wearing a pig-skin mask. His clothes bore clear burn marks, and a faint scent of charred flesh lingered about him. Seeing this figure, the son-in-law suddenly realized who it was. His face turned ashen with horror, his lips trembling as he stammered, "Are... are... are you Max?"

Before he could finish, a dagger sliced through his throat. Blood sprayed out. Max, his eyes devoid of emotion, tossed the man aside.

*Thud.* The body hit the floor, blood gushing from the wound and quickly forming a large pool. The son-in-law’s body twitched, his nerves firing in a rhythmic spasm, like a fish out of water struggling in its final moments. Max seemed curious about the process of a human hovering between life and death; he stood quietly to the side, staring intently at the man, watching as his movements grew smaller and smaller, his eyes losing their light, until finally, his pupils dilated, his limbs went limp, and he fell silent forever.

*Bang!* Suddenly, a bullet pierced through Max’s temple. Max’s body jerked, and he collapsed to the ground.