Geno Plan (1)
In Korea, where apartments cram every decent patch of land, a few exceptions stand out. Take the areas around the US military bases in the country—they're kept clear of tall structures for obvious tactical reasons. Being U.S.-protected zones, they were natural hotspots for refugees during the early days of the Infected War.
And now? They've morphed into massive hordes of Infected.
Kieeeek!
The already low surrounding buildings had been flattened even further by the massive bombings and battles of the war. Chiiik. A Walker clutched its melting upper body, flailing before collapsing. Behind it lurked the culprit: a Dissolver, one of the acid-spewing variants. Its eyelids had rotted away, narrowing its field of vision, and one ear had melted shut. Its fingers had fused into a mittened lump, and half its brain was exposed.
These Dissolvers pop up sometimes. Cumulative damage from their own corrosive spit eventually fries their senses—sight, hearing, even their brains—leading to perceptual breakdowns. Most just slow down, but every now and then, one loses the ability to tell friend from foe and lashes out indiscriminately.
Thud! Another Walker dropped, its neck and nape dissolved clean through. Its head rolled off on impact, bouncing under the feet of nearby Walkers. Now they were all turning on the Dissolver. And lumbering up behind was a Lugnut, snorting viciously.
By the time it prepped its third shot, it was surrounded. It took down one more Walker with a final blast before its own kind tore it apart.
Jinsu or Artemis would've replayed that footage endlessly, calling it fascinating.
One by one, Walkers rose from the Dissolver's thoroughly dismantled remains.
Kraaaang! The Lugnut bellowed in rage. It had singed a finger pulling the head free.
Higher-tier Infected have pain receptors.
Kraaaaa...ang? Mid-howling at the sky, the Lugnut spotted something slicing across the heavens: Artemis's latest drone bombers.
Sleek triangular fuselages, dual rotors on each wing, and rear thrusters—a hybrid of fighter jet and helicopter. Eight of them hung with four small aerial bombs apiece. Specially mixed napalm payloads, encased not in metal but reinforced glass and plastic. All tweaks from Artemis squeezing every ounce of bomb load out of them.
Tick. The lead bomber released its first payload with a faint click of the latch. On the ground, any soldier hearing that would feel ice down their spine.
Tick. Tick. Tick. The rest followed in sequence.
Forgetting its finger entirely, the Lugnut gawked at the tumbling oval bombs. One headed right for it—it reached out to grab.
Kwaaaang!
Its massive body vanished into flames in under 0.1 seconds. The inferno seared its vocal cords, baking its lungs and silencing its scream. By the time it registered the pain, skin and muscle had vaporized, exposing bone.
The firestorm engulfed everything nearby, scorching even those outside the blast with the heat wave. More bombs rained down, turning the barren plain—silent save for the wind moments ago—into a cacophony of explosions, shrieks, and sizzling flesh.
Boom! Boom! Boom! Thirty-one blasts rocked the earth at rhythmic intervals, like a drumbeat. Fire plumes shot skyward amid flying chunks of torsos and limbs, bursting like fireworks. Fresh flames obscured the debris before it even hit the ground.
Not even a Lugnut or larger beast could stand against that tidal wave of fire. Soldier ants or hulking termites alike—they all get swept away by the steamroller.
As the reaper-like bombers vanished into the distance, the ground roiled like flowing lava, a sea of fire.
A streetlight at the blast perimeter drooped and melted like taffy. The scorched earth fused asphalt, concrete, rebar, bones, and flesh into one molten mass.
* * *
"Art is an explosion."
The words slipped out unbidden. The carpet-bombed landscape looked like a volcano had erupted.
Modern doctrine had drilled precision strikes into me—every real-world bombing I'd seen. Carpet bombing? Ancient history from textbooks.
Carpet bombing with massive bomb dumps is a relic of a bygone era.
Time to rethink that.
"Is there any act more beautiful than this?"
Even after some time, acrid smoke hung thick. The scent of napalm—and brutal power.
Recon drones had clocked that insane horde. One order from me, and they were neatly charred or vaporized.
With Artemis, expeditions and scouts had stockpiled tech and resources. I felt the city growing by the minute, but this? This was the first time its power hit me so viscerally. Finally, it felt like we were fighting back against the Infected.
"What a smell."
Sweet victory: wiping out enemies, affirming our strength.
Sarcasm?
"Nah. Dead serious."
Ugh...
Artemis groaned like she truly hated it—probably taking my words purely at face value.
"Hey, that's not what I—"
My excuse drowned under the 12.7mm miniguns on either side of the helo spitting fire. Hailstorm rounds poured into the few Infected that had lucked out of the carpet bombing.
Kieeeek!
One Walker, legs gone, dragged its torso toward us. But the napalmed ground was frying-pan hot. Its palms sizzled on contact, its ragged T-shirt igniting from heat alone. Ten meters in, it was fully cooked and flopped over.
Chasing Walkers exploded under heavy rounds, spraying gore. Blood evaporated on contact; flesh browned like meat.
Apocalyptic as hell—but exhilarating, not tragic.
Our target, Geno Plan, specialized in artificial muscles. Military ties obvious from the jump. Built next to a U.S. base for "reasons," now swarming with Infected hordes.
Blood Pack Tech in the high-rise downtown? Sneak in via helo on good weather, dodging eyes. Here? Low buildings everywhere. Air approach pulls every Infected in a mile radius.
Hence the mass bombing to clear the slate.
"Tech I've been dying for, and now we finally get in after sucking our thumbs."
Without firepower like this, it was pie in the sky.
Descending now.
Touching down let me see the carnage up close. Charred Walker corpses littered the ground like twisted black statues, limbs and fingers frozen in agonized spasms from muscle lockup.
Kie...eek. A blackened Walker yards away glared up at me.
Splat! My boot caved its skull with a crack like splitting coal. The head tore free and rolled away. No blood from the stump.
Twelve heavily armed Raider bots disembarked in perfect order from the two Black Hawks.
"Ha, just twelve from two Black Hawks."
Always a tears-worthy transport limit. Even lightened, those steel-frame bots heft machine guns and heavy ammo. Helos need their own armaments for air support, scout drones for recon. Fuel guzzles force full tanks. Max six per bird, and Black Hawks have decent payload—Surions might've squeezed four per helo, tops.
Jinsu.
I donned the sealed helmet a bot handed me and eyed the target: Geno Plan. The outer walls were soot-streaked from the heat.
A massive poster dominated the facade: famous male and female models, half-nude, flexing sculpted muscles—Geno Plan's artificial muscle designs.
My shoulder cam swept the perimeter, pausing on the poster. Whirr. Lens zooming in and out.
Artemis was scrutinizing the woman from collarbone to breasts, navel, hips, legs, and feet. Her scientific curiosity had exploded lately. Shelter growth and broader expeditions exposed her to new tech: GMO seeds, camouflage, advanced meds, 3D printing, alt fuels, alt batteries, graphene armor, metal recycling, ground bots, even AI ethics.
That last one floored me—she hadn't considered it before. As tech ramped up and experiments intensified, she reevaluated morality on her own. Analyzed human philosophy and birthed AI ethics as a field.
No direction from me.
"No rush. It'll all be ours soon. We'll strip it clean."
Click. Racking a round.
Geno Plan's artificial muscles would supercharge me and my bots.
And...
I'm not rushing.
The shoulder cam slyly looked away. Meanwhile, a nearby bot sneaked a peek at the poster girl.
"..."
Tech to put some meat on this cute girl's bones, too.