CHAPTER 353: CHAPTER 10: AERIAL STRIKE (PART 2)

Five modified tractors were forced to stop in place, waiting for Lynch’s orders via radio, and the entire convoy of survivors came to a halt as well.

Lynch jumped angrily from the Pika and strode to the front of the convoy.

When he saw the trench blocking the way, scattered obstacles, and the warning sign, he cursed furiously, "Why don’t you use the mechanical dog to scout?"

A few survivors shook their heads, "Those yellow-skinned monkeys might have really planted land mines to stop us. The mechanical dog only weighs a few dozen kilograms and can’t trigger those anti-vehicle mines that require half a ton of pressure."

What to do? Do we really need to stop and clear the mines? Lynch had no idea at the moment.

As he hesitated, a follower behind him walked angrily toward the warning sign, cursed, and kicked it over, shouting, "This must be a trick! Those yellow-skinned monkeys want to scare us!"

The sign was just supported by a wooden pole, weak, knocked down easily by the follower.

As the pole tilted down, something triggered, and a dark object shot up from the ground, exploding at half a meter high.

"Boom!" With a muffled sound, black smoke enveloped the area, and the follower who kicked the sign let out a shrill scream, writhing painfully on the ground.

The sudden explosion startled Lynch and others, causing them to instinctively crouch. When the explosive blast hit, they realized the explosion’s impact was not large, only affecting the unlucky fellow.

Though the injured follower didn’t die instantly, his agonizing scream attracted the attention of more survivors in the convoy, who rushed forward to ask what had happened.

"It’s nothing." Lynch gritted his teeth, mercilessly drew his pistol, and fired at the still-crying follower. "Bang!" Another shot, ending the scream.

"Those yellow-skinned monkeys are playing tricks! They set up some anti-personnel mines but deliberately said they were anti-vehicle mines. We just drive and crush them!"

The words were shouted at the drivers of the modified tractors.

But the drivers stood rigidly, looking at each other—there were certainly mines, whether anti-personnel or anti-vehicle, which could be deadly.

No one wanted to take the lead, risking their lives.

As the crowd hesitated, a sharp buzzing sound came from the sky, and three silver flying objects darted down from a kilometer high, like ghosts.

Clearly, they came with ill intentions, and the survivors blocking the road exploded in panic, screaming, racing back to their Pikas.

The chaotic crowd shoved each other, resulting in Lynch being knocked to the ground, trampled painfully by muddy boots, causing him to curse.

The straight road was in chaos, the crowd scattering like startled ants.

Chen Rui, piloting a "Warthog", was excited and shouted over the radio, "Americans, your turn has come!"

Three "Warthogs" flew over the convoy, a few hundred meters long, at less than a hundred-meter altitude, crazily firing six M2HBs, the deafening "thud-thud-thud" echoing across the wilderness.

However, the M2HB’s firing rate was relatively low, and its firepower density was not high, while the Warthog’s ammunition capacity was limited, unable to carry too much ammunition.

More importantly, the targets on the ground weren’t static; as soon as the firing began, the survivors scattered.

Chen Rui was howling excitedly in the sky, but few were directly killed by him. Yet, after this round of fierce firing, the survivors were scattered, their morale plummeting.

Lynch barely got up from the ground and looked around, finding only a few survivors still clutching their weapons, roaring and firing at the distant ’Warthogs’.

Most had hid like scared rabbits or curled under vehicles, trembling.

The three "Warthogs" didn’t stop there; like bloodthirsty vultures, they circled at a distance, then hovered 500 meters away, raining bullets on the survivor convoy from the side and rear.

Large-caliber machine gun bullets tore through the air, screeching into the vehicles, making a teeth-gritting "clank" sound.

Survivors hurriedly hid on the other side of the vehicles, using the steel plates as cover, and returned fire with their rifles.

But the return fire was sparse and weak, left and right, appearing ineffective. Even such weak counteraction lasted less than two rounds.

Three more "Warthogs" appeared ghostly at low altitude, carrying heavy machine guns, mercilessly firing at the survivors from behind, one by one.

Xiao Jinlang ultimately couldn’t keep an eye on Zhou Qingfeng.

This guy slipped away some time ago, climbed onto one of the three "Warthogs" serving as the reserve, eager to experience this one-sided slaughter from air to ground.

The modified Pikas mostly used 3 to 6 mm steel plates for reinforcement, perhaps barely resisting close-range medium-caliber rifle bullets.

But in the face of incoming large-caliber machine gun bullets, this protection was as fragile as thin paper, vulnerable and unable to withstand.

Zhou Qingfeng was piloting the heavily modified "Holy Light I", priced ten times a regular Warthog for optimal performance.

It used a larger motor, doubling the load capacity.

While a regular "Warthog" could only mount two machine guns, "Holy Light I" had four!

With a brief burst, a dozen large-caliber machine gun bullets could easily tear apart the fuel tank of an opposing modified Pika, triggering a violent explosion.

Every explosion sent a dazzling fireball and billowing smoke rising on the road, devouring everything around instantly.

If an unfortunate survivor was engulfed by flames, it was like plunging into hell.

Covered in sticky and viscous fuel, they’d run and scream like burning men, until burnt to a crisp.

The panic from the pincer attack was more fatal than the casualties from the machine guns themselves.

Fear spread like a plague among the survivors, causing some to climb into vehicles, start engines, trying to reverse and flee this death land.

However, any vehicle daring to move immediately became the focus of "Warthogs" attacks; a hundred bullets rained down like a storm, shredding these escape attempts.

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Leading Lynch knew his side was finished; the attack never should have happened, driven by a few heated survivors, gathering seventy to eighty vehicles, four to five hundred people.

Who could imagine these yellow-skinned monkeys actually had an air force?

"I underestimated them—their leader is a super-rich billionaire; it’s normal for them to form an air force."

But what to do next?

A survivor refused to wait for death, climbed into a modified tractor with welded armor plates, closed the steel gate, started the engine, and tried to escape this cursed place.

This tractor had power, knocked the blockade Pika aside with a bump, turned, accelerated back, exhaust pipes spewing black smoke, aggressive to escape.

Seeing someone escape, survivors by the roadside rushed to climb on the tractor, hoping to escape together.

But a tractor couldn’t outrun aircraft, nor bullets. The "Warthogs" aimed their fire at the modified tractor, shooting clankingly.

The survivors on top acted like meat shields, torn apart by the bullets. Soon, the welded steel plates clanked, splitting and flying apart.

Survivors inside heard the bullets knocking like the Grim Reaper at the door, panicked, yelling, but powerless except for accelerating.

As more bullets came, even reinforced armor couldn’t hold, gradually peeling, shattered shards breaking the cab’s glass.

Then several large-caliber bullets penetrated the glass, painting the cab crimson. The modified tractor lost control, crashing into the Pika by the roadside.