"Quentin, the great devil, waaaah, Hugh is dead..." Lily, with her sturdy nerves, clung to Quentin's neck, sobbing pitifully.

"I'm sorry! Whenever I'm in danger, Joey emerges..." Quentin's gaze darkened as he patted the little nurse's back and whispered softly.

"Let's move; we're falling behind!" Relieved to see Quentin back to normal, Lincoln breathed a sigh of relief. Being near Joey had been unbearably stressful, almost snapping his sanity.

The next few levels of the stairwell saw their mixed group encounter more zombies. But compared to the ten-strong party, the small number of zombies failed to cause any significant obstruction. However, two more federal soldiers, used as human shields, were lost, and the inmates all bore injuries.

After catching up with the group, conversations with the transvestite Lyla yielded insight into the mixed group's situation. It turned out that after dispersing from the cell block, the surviving death row inmates, now armed with kitchen knives and other makeshift weapons, had been driven to the base's control center by scattered zombies, where they met the remaining base researchers and federal soldiers.

Initially numbering over fifty, with more than twenty soldiers and a dozen researchers, they encompassed the vast majority of survivors. Aside from a few who hid in the base's nooks and crannies, they were the bulk of those left alive.

At first, the federal soldiers were the largest group, but as they cared for the weaker researchers and feared infection, they fought hesitantly. Gradually, they were separated and whittled down by the undead, eventually reduced to mere pawns for the inmates.

The death row inmates, having fought for their lives, battled the zombies ferociously, unafraid and ruthless in hand-to-hand combat. Despite all bearing wounds, they had suffered only a few losses from the control center to the safety corridor, controlling the dwindling federal force.

As time passed, this small band of twelve or thirteen survivors finally made it from the safety stairs to the base's exit corridor. At about seven meters wide and thirty meters long, the corridor's floor had transport rails, now immobile.

The exit's steel door was over ten centimeters thick and extraordinarily heavy. Despite having rollers underneath, pushing it open was no easy task.

After emerging from the stairs, zombies in the vast ground-floor hall began to notice them, shuffling closer. With nearly a hundred zombies, the injured inmates stood no chance of pushing back.

Only by opening the base's steel door could they glimpse a chance of survival.

Upon entering the exit corridor, Quentin could no longer stand and slumped against the corner wall. He had lost too much blood, his face deathly pale, sweat pouring from his brow.

"Great devil Quentin, how are you feeling?" Lily crouched in front of Quentin, her voice laced with concern.

"Don't stray too far from me!" Quentin glanced at the strangely silent death row group, then closed his eyes to rest, ignoring Lily's presence.

The last three federal soldiers received a signal from the inmates behind them, who then brandished their sharp knives, plunging them into the soldiers' backs.

"Ah!" The soldiers' short screams rang out as they collapsed with faces full of hatred, dragged by the inmates to the corridor's other end, tossed before the approaching undead.

The inmates had learned that these zombies neither spread infection nor retained any intelligence; only the instinct to feed remained. As long as "food" was nearby, they would ignore everything else. The best way to block them wasn't to fight but to place a body in front of them. In this way, everyone else was safe until that "food" was consumed.

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"Three bodies might not be enough for a hundred zombies!" A bald, fierce-looking inmate grinned sinisterly, "It would be best if a few more 'useless' ones could make a final contribution."

This bald man, Chekhov, was a Russian mafia boss and serial killer known as "Chameleon."

Chekhov was about two meters tall, with a massive build weighing over 240 pounds, standing like a wall. His muscles weren't as defined as Hanso's, but they were still prominent, far from just fat. In contrast to the slight Lyla, he was like an adult compared to a child.

Seeing no response, Chekhov narrowed his eyes, ripping his tattered prison clothes to reveal his upper body's purple tattoos, the reason behind his nickname "Chameleon."

The Russian inmate's gaze turned to the others, first landing on the smallest, Lyla. Her body shuddered under his malevolent stare, and she looked desperately to Hanso beside her for help.

Hanso's lips curled slightly as he stepped forward to shield Lyla, his cold gaze meeting Chekhov's. Sparks flew between the two murderers.

"Hmph!" Chekhov's face twitched as he grunted and looked away.

Though there were many serial killers among the death row inmates, there were differences among them, mainly reflected in the federal assessment of their threat level, which also served as a benchmark for the killers themselves.

In terms of the number of murders, Hanso was second to none in this group; no one dared claim to be first. After all, he was a mercenary, bloodstained since his child soldier days, which was why Sector 91 kept him on the top floor of the cell block.

Then there was Quentin, "The Dissector" Joey Foster, who differed from Hanso. Although his kill count wasn't particularly high among the murderers, his threat level was considered high by federal assessments.

The reason was that while other serial killers mostly targeted ordinary people, Quentin had mostly killed death row inmates since entering Nevada's maximum-security prison, including other notorious serial killers.

"The Dissector's" infamous reputation was taboo among the death row inmates, making him a murderer among murderers. This was why Lyla almost wet herself upon recognizing Quentin, and even Hanso was reluctant to stay with him.

Realizing he couldn't target Lyla, Chekhov's menacing gaze swept around once more, finally settling on Quentin's group.

His eyes showed a hint of wariness towards Quentin but settled on the small, timid figure beside the murderer, revealing a cruel smile as he strode forward.

Quentin, feigning weakness, was not to be trifled with, and Lincoln, now in prison clothes, seemed uninjured. However, the young nurse in her uniform appeared to be the most accessible target.

Despite her proximity to Quentin, Chekhov was confident that the "Dissector," severely wounded and barely clinging to life, would not bother over the life or death of a base nurse.

The Russian giant grabbed Lily by the neck, lifting her like a chick in midair.

"Ah!" Lily's terrified legs kicked wildly, but her futile punches had no effect on the imposing Russian.

"Ha-ha!" Chekhov licked his lips excitedly, his eyes gleaming savagely as he tightened his grip.

Lily's face turned purple, her mouth gaping like a dying fish, her eyes slowly rolling back, about to be strangled to death by Chekhov.

At that moment, however, Chekhov noticed the other inmates' expressions change, their mocking grins suggesting they were watching a spectacle unfold.

A chill ran through the Russian as he spun around. A demonic figure had silently appeared behind him, its pupils burning with a hellish glow like ghostly flames in the dark, quietly watching him.

"You..." Chekhov gasped, his face contorting in horror.

Recognizing the threat, Quentin revealed a gruesome smile, his hidden right hand slashing swiftly.

"Thwack!" A black flash cut through the corridor, the scissor-like black dagger piercing through the left temple and exiting the right of Chekhov's head, skewering his skull from side to side.

Chekhov's twisted expression froze, his bulging eyes losing their luster as his massive body collapsed with a thud, stirring up a cloud of dust.

"Cough, cough!" Lily, freed from Chekhov's iron grip, lay gasping on the ground.

Lincoln, pallid, glanced at Chekhov's body and wisely helped the nurse to a corner. The sudden violence left him with an uneasy feeling he couldn't quite place.

The red glow faded from Quentin's eyes, his impassive face wiping the dagger on Chekhov's body before sitting back in the corner, closing his eyes, though his mind was in turmoil.

At the moment he killed Chekhov, a cool sensation flowed through the dagger into his palm, and the egg-shaped pattern formed from the "Necro Noticee" in his hand gave a small throb.

When the base had first gone awry, Quentin "saw" his simple tablet computer, the "Necro Noticee," merge with an orange-yellow polyhedral crystal. At that time, he was merely curious, and upon contact, the "Necro Noticee" merged into his palm.

Now, stimulated by the cool sensation, the "Necro Noticee" seemed to awaken, pulsing rhythmically as if a tiny heart had formed in Quentin's palm.