These firebombs were equipped with simple delay fuses, relying on gravitational potential to smash through wooden roofs and then explode inside—most villas in the United States favored wooden structures, which were cheap and convenient but not sturdy enough.
If they used more reinforced concrete, the effectiveness of such rudintary firebombs would be greatly reduced.
The falling firebombs exploded thunderously inside the house, instantly dispersing hundreds of strips of cloth, cotton, or even waste paper drenched in viscous heavy oil.
The ignited fragnts rapidly released billowing thick smoke and scorching heat, turning the house into a sea of fire. Once the blaze spread, it would fully consu the entire building within two or three minutes.
The survivors hiding inside could not withstand such roasting, and they were forced to flee the inferno in a sorry state, trying to find new hiding places.
As soon as they dared to show themselves... two or three modified Pikas were already eyeing the burning house nearby in coordination.
Once a silhouette dashed out from the sea of flas, the M240 general-purpose machine guns mounted on the weapon stations of the Pikas would rcilessly spit fire.
Just a short burst or two was enough to turn the escapee into a sieve full of bullet holes.
Scott hid inside a burning house, and through the window, he personally witnessed a companion who had just been following him get ignited by the heavy oil splattered by the firebomb, crying out in heart-rending agony, and rolling in pain on the ground.
Not far away, two modified Pikas quietly observed it all. They didn’t imdiately shoot those who were on fire, instead watching the victims’ painful struggles with a cruel cat-and-mouse attitude.
What made Scott’s eyes tear was that he actually saw Omar’s figure!
This despicable black man didn’t escape with Sani and the others but instead humbly surrendered again to the "Holy Light" team in the town!
At this mont, Omar held a roasted potato in each hand, carefully following alongside one of the modified Pikas, acting as an "accompanying infantry."
He was gnawing on a potato while pointing at the targets fleeing from the sea of flas.
The Pika had limited visibility inside, indeed needing such a stooge to serve as their "eyes" and "ears."
"Black people are truly unreliable scum!" A sense of unspeakable sorrow surged in Scott’s heart, even mixed with imnse fear.
The survivors from surrounding towns joined forces precisely because they saw that the number of Asians in Avoni Town was small and vulnerable.
Before the virus outbreak, the more pure-blooded Asian population in the United States was about 20 million, with about 5 million being Chinese, not a large number.
In the eyes of those white supremacists, being fewer ant easy to bully. If not them, then who else?
When the apocalypse ca, those Asians who didn’t cause much trouble and didn’t hoard enough guns and ammunition were at the bottom tier of society, probably less than one-tenth surviving.
At this mont, Scott knew he was already a sitting duck, dood to die. However, what was harder for him to accept was that the black man Omar, who should have died with him, was favored instead.
An unpredictable "fence-sitter" could still manage to survive!
"This is a big trouble..." The house where Scott was had been engulfed by raging flas, with rolling smoke and oppressive heat.
He didn’t want to be burned to death or torn to pieces by a machine gun. In desperation, he pulled out his pistol, the cold muzzle pressed against his temple.
But seeing Omar willingly "be a dog" again, the wrath in Scott’s heart erupted like a volcano.
He suddenly pushed open the door already seared hot by flas, stord out, raised his pistol, and fired repeatedly at the black man Omar, 20 to 30 ters away, shouting in despair and fury:
"Why join them of all people?! Why must you join these yellow people?!"
"If all blacks are like you, what will happen to us whites?!"
"I can allow you to group with your own but never to rge with the yellow people!"
Scott’s pistol fired four or five tis in succession, but under intense emotional fluctuation and at a distance of 20 to 30 ters,
every bullet missed the target, rely leaving a few white scratches on the armor of the modified Pika with a muffled clanking sound.
Omar flinched in fear as the ricocheting bullets whistled past his ears.
Almost simultaneously, the machine gun on the weapon station atop the Pika beside him spewed furious fire, a burst of bullets left Scott bloodied and torn, falling on his back in the flaming ruins.
The few words Scott scread before his death were completely drowned out by the deafening gunfire and crackling flas, unheard by anyone.
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