Rotten dark purple flesh, exposed pale nasal bones, cloudy, frozen eyes, and mutilated ears. When combined, the result is an indescribable, disgusting and terrifying face favored by horror literature, a nightmarish face that would make any child cry out loud and make a determined man like Mosilaire go into cardiac arrest.

Especially with a bent neck and a thinly clothed stiff body under the head that exceeds the limits of normal human imagination, combined with the fact that this guy has not directly frozen into an ice sculpture outdoors at dozens of degrees below zero, Mosilaire's mind finally struggled to come up with a term that she herself found unbelievable:

"Zombies".

"Zombies", what a new and absurd word, this new race created by many horror literatures has been active in many literary fields. They eat bear children without spitting out bones, which is both greedy and stupid. They are tireless, they are not afraid of pain, and they have only one goal and motivation to move forward - to eat people - the cruel way of eating your skin, pulling your tendons, and using your skull to feed on your flesh.

Mosilele thought that this race existed only in literature and film.

Until now, she still thinks that she is hallucinating, maybe the bionic eye on the right side is malfunctioning, or the nanosensory infection is affecting her vision and thinking.

However, when the monster outside the door spotted Mosilaire and stretched out her lost left arm, trying to hook her, she immediately opened fire. Without hesitation.

Swirling bullets of charge shot in from its drooping, dislocated jaw and burst out from the back of its head, the sudden increase in pressure within the skull that stretched its entire ugly head open, and finally the rancid brains and coagulated blood together with the flying bone fragments evenly outlined a bloody and perfect circle under the dim night sky.

The headless corpse collapsed in the snow and was soon buried under the cover of snowflakes.

It was only after a while that Mosilaire struggled to turn back in a state of distraction. The bracelet showed that her heart rate had accelerated to over 160/min, and although it only lasted for a few minutes, the impact was extremely noticeable - Mosilaire could clearly feel her head buzzing, accompanied by an uncontrollable feeling of vertigo.

She suddenly felt a little nauseous, and felt a little scared and glad that she had a weapon by her side,—— but fortunately her injuries had not affected her thinking and judgment, and fortunately she could still hold the charged rifle and smash the zombie's head with precision.

Mosilaire sat on the ground and gasped for a moment, then immediately got up to look for a weight that he didn't need. Obviously, she needed to reinforce the base's "gates" and carefully inspect the main walls of the base to make sure there weren't any gaps left that zombies could get into.

She absolutely, absolutely couldn't let them in.

Mosilaire sprang into action and spent the afternoon reinforcing the makeshift barriers, and while she didn't know if there were more zombies around the base, her instincts and sanity told her it was worth it.

In the evening, she eats a piece of boiled worm meat, which is boiled on a campfire in a pot with ice cubes. The meat was tiny, the size of a baby's fist, which was not enough for an adult's dinner—but Mosilaire didn't have much left to fill her stomach, and she wanted to save a little—though it seemed like nothing more than an attempt to prolong her inevitable death.

After eating the worm meat, the exhausted Mosileelle was finally able to rest on her new mat - this fashionable new mat had been filled with some of the sheer hay she had collected in the afternoon, and a piece of cloth, a small amount of cotton, and a lot of slightly softer plant straw went in, and although it was still a little prickly, it was indeed more comfortable and warmer to lie down.

Also the fruit of her labor was a wooden spear, which she had broken from a ruined bedroom door and sharpened with a kitchen knife to become a simple weapon—Mosilaire had wanted to tie a kitchen knife to the spearhead, but she had searched the entire base but couldn't find a rope she could use, so she had to give up.

The tip of the spear had been carefully roasted over a campfire, so that it would be harder so that it would not break easily when it pierced something,—— and the wooden spear itself was made of outstanding material, and it took a lot of effort for Mosilaire to sharpen it, which gave Mosilaire a little confidence in this handmade wooden spear.

And before there is a reliable source of electricity, the charge rifle should still be used as sparingly as possible, because high-tech weapons without electricity are not very painful to knock people.

The blizzard outside the base was still howling, and there seemed to be no sign of abating.

There were still a few pieces of ice in the pot on the campfire that hadn't melted. Mosilaire just stared at the ice.

She still had one last piece of worm meat, which weighed only about a pound and a half. There wasn't a lot of wood available in the base, and even if she was willing to put a lot of effort into disassembling the wooden furniture, she would be able to get wood to last a campfire for two or three days at most.

She only hoped that Blizzard would stop sooner rather than later—preferably tomorrow morning, so that she could get back to the crash site to collect food, weapons, materials, and everything else she could use.

As for the rescue? She didn't count on it at all.

The hinges of the glorious galaxy's destruction had begun to shrink, and in the midst of endless chaos and war, she was nothing more than an insignificant little person smaller than stardust.

Mosilele slept badly that night, very, very badly, although there were no more zombies attacking the base that night, but the severe pain on his body and the huge pressure of survival and the slim hope were enough to overwhelm Mosilele. It took hours for Mosilaire to get himself out of his pessimistic whims and barely fall asleep.

But even when he fell asleep, Mosilaire quickly woke up from nightmares – either dreaming of his head being gnawed by zombies or starving to death in a cold barn. All in all, it's not a dream that makes people laugh.

She also dreams of Peanuts – Peanuts is a cute and beautiful female cat, her female cat.

Unfortunately, Peanut didn't end well in her dreams.

When Mosilaire woke up to the cacophony of the next day's alarm, all she could feel was a pang of pain in her head. Naturally, Mosilaire was going to pay the price for her insomnia last night.

The blizzard outside the base still had no intention of stopping, and Mosilaire sat down in front of the campfire and readded some wood to the nearly extinguished campfire.

For the whole day today, Mosilaire had spent the whole day in a state of trepidation. Desperate for something to be done, but there seemed to be nothing else to do, she had to check the gates and walls of the base over and over again and stubbornly try to sharpen the tip of the wooden spear - the tip of the spear almost glowed!

After reworking and examining the wounds on her body, Mosilaire fell asleep from the intense hunger and the approaching night—the last piece of worm meat she had forced herself to eat only a little, she didn't want to eat it all so quickly.

The last pound of worm meat was Mosilele's hope, and she couldn't just starve to death.

At half-past three in the morning, Mosilaire was awakened by a loud noise. It was a terrifying force that could frighten all living beings, and even the vast expanse of earth under their feet trembled.

Even far from the center of the explosion, Mosilaire could still clearly feel the terrifying sound it generated, and the violent impact shook the entire vast base, and the endless raging storm and snow were all stopped!

Only a multi-day fire that had melted away the inner protective plating of the crashed spacecraft's reactor could produce such a spectacular secondary explosion.

The sky-high orange flames lit up the entire area, and the blinding light pierced through the layers of heavy wind and snow, through the narrow air window of the barn, and into Mosilel's eyes.

Miss Mosilare's brown eyes were so bright and terrifying, and at this moment, she seemed to have made up her mind.

The morning of the second day came, but outside the frosty bulletproof window, it was still chaotic and black—Mosilaire was ready to go, and when she had made up her mind, she didn't close her eyes all night.

The campfire in front of her had never been brighter, for Mosilaire had thrown all the wood available into it, just so that she could keep herself as hot as possible before she set out.

Her breakfast was a piece of boiled worm meat—the last piece of worm meat she had—and she didn't know if she would survive the rest of the adventure, so she ate it all to turn it into heat for her journey.

Heavily armed, Mosilaire stood up and glanced at her pathetic scratched bracelet.

It is now 7:13 a.m., the room temperature is -11°C, the body temperature is 37.5°, the average heartbeat is 110/min, the blood sugar is slightly low, and the blood oxygen is normal.

Not at her peak, but it's the best she can be in at the moment.

Mosilaire didn't have much time, as she didn't know how long the shipwreckage would burn, and once the crashed remains burned out, the snowflakes would quickly cover all traces.

She'll probably have to wait until the snow melts if she finds the crash site—if spring does come.

The poet Shelley may have never seen such a terrible blizzard, but Mosilere believed that he would have cried out to the bitter cold wind in the snowflakes that could easily drown him.

Tightening her cuffs, she took a few minutes to remove a small opening in the doorway for herself, and then plunged headlong into the snow.

Although she had been clearing the snow in front of the door for several days, the snow outside the base had piled up to her thighs in just one night.

Carrying a spear and charged rifle on her back, she struggled to climb up the upper layer of the snow, and as soon as she emerged, the violent storm blew her body back, and she seemed to feel as if she had been hit in the head with a mallet.

Fortunately, she quickly bent down again and stabilized her figure.

Her fiber coat was wrapped in several layers of shabby cloth coat, which Mosilaire had picked up yesterday from a pet kennel in the base, and although it was a little sour, it was perfect for keeping the wind out - she also had a leather bandana and mask, which had been torn from the kennel, but it was not really clear what kind of animal skin, only that it was tough and smooth, a bit like her own skin, but she didn't stink that way.

The temperature dropped to -53°C and the wind speed was estimated to exceed 150 km/h.

She didn't know how long she would be able to withstand the cold outdoors.

The only good news was that the ship's wreckage was still burning and violently, and the ever-rising flames lit up half of the oppressive and gloomy sky, guiding her through the snow like a bright North Star in the dim light of the blizzard.