Walking Dead: Unlock the Umbrella Corporation Hive Begins with Hunting Chapter 110 110: 110

On the CDC's periter wall, gasoline

drums were stacked one after another behind the barricades, nozzles facing outward with rubber hoses connected to hand pumps. Several workers hurriedly filled the drums with gasoline, filling the air with a pungent, acrid sll.

Further out in the open space, tanks' gun barrels pointed north, arranged in neat rows like a forest of steel. A cannon carriage was set up nearby, with the gunner squatting behind it, holding the firing rope in his hand. Mortar cannons pointed skyward, with incendiary shells neatly stacked in a box beside them, fuses not yet installed.

Three layers of barbed wire stretched outside the fence, stakes driven into the ground with barbed wire wrapped around them. Beyond that, trenches were wide and deep, with sharpened wooden stakes at the bottom. Obstacles—abandoned cars, concrete blocks, felled trees—were piled haphazardly in front of the trenches, like a child's ssy stack of blocks.

Those standing on the wall were the first to see the black line. It appeared at the end of the highway, stretching from one horizon to the other—like a black coastline. Their faces and clothes were indistinct; all that could be seen were countless grayish-white dots moving densely, like ants carrying food. But these figures were much larger than ants, and there were far more of them.

So people swallowed hard, gripping their guns with trembling hands, while others instinctively took a step back.

"Stay calm," Sandra's voice crackled through the walkie-talkie, cold and steady. "Wait for orders."

The black line drew closer. Faces beca clearer—grayish-white, rotting, mouths agape, eyes missing. You could sll them now—rotten, damp, like a pile of garbage that had been sitting around for months. Their roars blended into a wave of noise, surging relentlessly, numbing everyone's ears.

Wu Fan stood on the roof of the CDC, binoculars in hand, squinting at the approaching horde. Behind him, Amy clenched a folder tightly, her fingers white with tension. Beth stood nearby, her face as pale as paper, lips trembling but silent. Guillermo stood half a step behind Wu Fan, hand on his gun, eyes scanning every corner of the roof.

"Let's begin," Wu Fan ordered.

Snyder stood at the artillery position, holding a small red flag. Taking a deep breath, he waved the flag downward.

"Test firing—fire!"

A cannon roared, unleashing a shell that arced through the air and landed in the center of the Walker group, two kiloters away. The explosion kicked up a cloud of dark brown dirt, blowing away several Walkers, limbs scattered across the ground.

Snyder checked the target through his telescope, adjusting the firing angle and waving the flag again.

"The whole company—fire!"

One hundred cannons simultaneously erupted with a deafening bang. The ground trembled, walls shook, and Wu Fan felt the concrete beneath his feet vibrate. Shells burst among the Walkers, exploding into dark red blooms. The creatures were shredded by the blast waves, their skulls shattered, limbs torn apart, as they were blown away.

But the remaining Walkers kept moving forward, stepping over fallen comrades, relentless.

"Load—fire!"

Snyder's voice was just a whisper amidst the chaos, but the flag waved on. Shell after shell was fired from the breech, the barrels glowing red-hot, the gunpowder-scented air thick with heat and sweat. When two thousand shells had been fired, the cannons beca as red as molten steel.

Snyder raised the flag but did not wave it. "Turn off the fire! Let it cool!"

The artilleryn collapsed, panting heavily. So refilled water bottles, others smoked, while a few squatted beside the overheated barrels.

The roar of the cannons subsided, but the mortar shells continued to sound. From the far side of the position, muffled thuds echoed—like soone beating a massive drum.

The shells slid into the mortar tubes, prid, then exploded among the distant corpses a kiloter away. Their explosions were quieter but dense, like a pot of boiling porridge.

anwhile, twenty M1A2 tanks opened fire, their deep, muffled booms resonating through the air. Shells blasted through the horde, creating bloody trenches. One Walker was blasted into the air, landing dozens of ters away, crashing into others before rolling back down.

The Walker horde reached the front of the barbed wire fence. The first row collided with the wire, which dug into their flesh, trapping them. Behind, others pressed forward, pushing the trapped ones down.

Barbed wire fences were pushed aside, trenches filled in, obstacles toppled—yet the wall stood firm. The grayish-white hands clung to its surface, fingernails scraping and making a harsh, creaking sound. But they couldn't climb; the wall was too high. They could only squeeze at the bottom, burning to ashes under the hail of bullets, shells, and gasoline.

Wu Fan watched from the rooftop, eyes fixed on the inferno below. Shells continued flying, gunfire echoed, and the roars persisted. He lowered the binoculars, turned, and descended the stairs.

Guillermo followed, with Amy and Beth behind him. Only a few remained on the roof, observing the chaos from afar.

Wu Fan headed to the seventh basent level of the Beehive. The countdown tir showed only two minutes remaining.