Good Reception (3)
Winter days are short. It had only been late afternoon when Eugene's group entered the cabin, but the sun had plummeted in an instant. Deep in the mountains to secure communication range, darkness fell, making it easy to lose their bearings. In such conditions, the drone flying ahead of the lead vehicle and guiding them was a godsend.
But not everyone appreciated it.
"Can we really trust this thing and follow it?"
"Feels like it's going in circles."
The two men in the back seat grumbled. Eugene's grip tightened on the wheel. Their tone held not just doubt, but resentment toward him. They tried to hide it, but Eugene was hypersensitive to others' emotions—subtle shifts in expression or voice tremors didn't escape him.
"She wouldn't trick us. No reason to, no gain in it. And without her help, we couldn't escape this night unscathed."
They had no rebuttal to plain logic. Besides, Eugene's gaze in the rearview mirror silenced them.
"Tracking an overhead drone while off-roading at night isn't easy. Quit yapping."
The hulking man in the passenger seat, Jincheol, rumbled in his gravelly voice. He had his own gripes with Eugene but had decided to save them until they reached safety.
"Can't you ask that drone to turn off its light? What if it draws them?"
"Then what do we follow? It's pitch black—you won't see shit."
"Oh, right."
The search team's sole couple bickered, creasing Eugene's brow.
'Joining a mysterious powerhouse faction.' Everyone knew it wasn't a sure bet, but failure was failure. Fuel, ammo, rations used—Eugene would be hard-pressed to speak up for a while.
"Impressive," Jincheol muttered, arms crossed, alternating glances between the drone and the scenery.
"What is?"
Eugene asked.
"Listen." Jincheol cracked the window. Cold air rushed in, sharpening external sounds. Infected humans, beasts, insects—their cries were mostly guttural roars, sometimes like sobs. Mixed with terrified wildlife, it formed an indescribable dirge. Red eyes flickered like will-o'-the-wisps amid distant houses. Please don't be looking at us.
"Roars from every direction, yet we haven't bumped into a single one?"
"Good guiding skills, I guess."
Eugene recalled the manager's voice over comms—cool, commanding throughout. He'd heard voices from survival camps, military brass, politicians on radio. Plenty talked survival, protection, food. Few vowed to wipe out the infected. And those were usually political bluster. But the manager was different.
'This war is ongoing for me. I'll erase them all.' No bluff in his tone. If ten thousand monsters targeted a village and he stood watch, everyone could sleep soundly. He gave off that vibe.
"Nothing's showing up. Those white trees must be real."
The guy fiddling with the portable radio spoke up. No matter the frequency, only static hissed.
"I had a talk show to catch tonight." He switched it off with a grumble. It was from Jeju's government faction station—a mishmash of pre-war celebs: MCs, YouTubers, announcers, comedians. Biased under gov protection, but entertaining. Southern survivors called it the most useful thing the Korean government did post-outbreak. Even after the recent armed revolt and purges, support continued—plus new hires and more shows to quell unrest.
"I turned that crap off the second I heard it. Why watch?"
"What else is there? I'd subscribe to Buddhist radio right now."
Clap! A smack and small yelp followed.
"Yes! We're here!"
The woman in back pointed. A roadside sign at the intersection.
"Remember this?" Cheers erupted, silenced by Jincheol's glare—but smiles lingered. Red letters on the rectangular sign read:
SAFARI STARTS HERE
NEVER LEAVE YOUR VEHICLE
UNLESS YOU WANNA DIE
Skulls of infected dogs, pigs, cows topped it—a warning from prior scouts for those behind. Such messages were popping up more. This spot marked the edge of a danger zone in northern Honam—pass it, and relative safety.
Night driving was the wildcard.
"Told you I hated the countryside. No loot, just monster parties."
One griped, but joy outweighed complaint.
"Alright, good work everyone—just a bit farther."
Jincheol said.
"Hit the rest stop? They're doing opening specials."
Radio guy recalled the one en route. Group lodging with cots not floors, showers like resorts, decent market, vehicle repair, food court. Apocalypse fare: plain potatoes, canned meals, mystery porridge, roasted field mice, pigeons, roe deer. No hot dogs or walnut pastries. But if you had it, you ate—no pickiness from empty stomachs.
Except one item.
"Try the special menu?"
"Ugh..."
"Eww..."
Everyone grimaced. Cheaper and heftier than rat meat, but unappetizing. Only hardcore homeless dared it.
"Right! Hot bath sounds good. One can per soak?"
The girlfriend rummaged her pack, pulling a can.
"This work?" Pickles.
"No conscience? Pickles should be three."
"What's wrong with pickles!"
"Cans only cover meats, corn, fruits—meal staples. Don't waste on extras."
Jincheol advised.
"Switch drivers? You've soloed it."
"After the drone's done. Stopping now looks bad."
Jincheol nodded.
"Yeosu after? They're recruiting hard, and Raven Rock manager has ties."
"...Later."
Solid plan, but Jincheol bristled. Eugene leading with buy-in spelled trouble.
"Yeah, later."
Eugene got it, dropped it.
"Kimchi! Mix with pickles—plenty..."
"GRRROOOAAARRGH-!"
Her boyfriend's bag yielded a new can as the earth-shaking roar cut her off.
"Shit."
A black dot raced toward the green dots on the map. Lugnut. 'Aggro' targets shift from red to black when closing with intent.
> Green Dots: Eugene Group (Vehicles + Bikes)
> Black Dot: Lugnut (Aggro Confirmed)
> Red Pool: Infected Masses (Slave Cows + Rippers)
> Blue Dot: Drone Bomber Inbound
[They're all in vehicles, chasing from behind—no quick catch. But...]
"Road king is the issue."
Cars stick to roads—potholed, winding, inefficient. Lugnut bulldozed straight: roads, fields, houses, fences.
We watched crystal-clear via the lead drone's high-res night cam.
And it wasn't alone. Dozens of red dots lined their escape route.
[Slave Cow herd on path—originally 10km out...]
"Dragged 'em all here."
A wrecked van, lid gone, four corpses scattered—gnawed remnants. Red-eyed horrors chewed cud-like. One dangled a thick intestine; horns jagged with gore. Black tongue snaked out, licking.
Its ears perked—toward Eugene. Intestine slurped in; it bellowed.
"Busted."
Dozens mid-reds and one black dominoed to black. Chilling.
Black and blue dots surged amid red pools under night sky. Lines linked them—ETAs ticking down.
"Cut it close?"
Blue arrived first—didn't need their spot, just range. Our drone bomber.
Once, smashing a nest inland quaked the earth. Heads popped up—hundreds, thousands. Insect wave horror. Inland ops meant horde violence. Hence, this attack drone: heli-drone hybrid. Never thought real deployment.
[Ready?]
Artemis activated controls on my panel.
Grayscale thermals pierced night, dissecting ground. Crosshair, delay, aimpoint displayed.
"Me shooting? You're way more precise."
[Try it once hands-on. Escort target makes perfect live test.]
"Miss and boom?"
[Don't wanna be murderer? Shoot straight. Fighting!]
"..."
Hand on panel.
[IFF mode?]
"Nah."
Monster vs. human—no civs, easy ID. 10 seconds left.
Bang-bang-bang! Eugene's group fired through windows—yellow muzzle flashes in dark.
"Save ammo."
[They don't know.]
5 seconds. Zoom caught monsters and convoy. Flashes intensified.
2 seconds. Cows <100m. Bikers peeled off—impressive holdout. They'd foul firing line.
0.
"Engaging."
Thung! Thung! Thung! Thung!
Shelter-spec grenades arced through gray.
Cows charged minotaur-style. Lead impacts:
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Rhythmic blasts shredded limbs. Ground glowed white-hot. One bike wobbled, crashed.
"Damn."
[Fine. Low speed tumble, good angle. He'll recover.]
Rider popped up, ran to bike—as Artemis said.
[5 o'clock rice paddy: 4 Slave Dogs on fallen rider.]
Small blobs crested ridges—blazing speed. Rider froze, spotted them—brain freeze: abandon bike or flee?
Running meant death.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! Sent 'em to heaven 20m out.
Rider, thinking doom, reeled from salvation double-tap.
"Mount up, idiot!"
Did he hear? Snapped to, hopped on.
"That's surviving war—run like hell."
[Cows reforming.]
"Straight lines? Easy."
Thung! Thung! Thung! Thung!
Grenades bloomed white flowers.
[Hits! More hits!]
Artemis cheered. Huge targets—limbs spectacularly shredded.
"No fear, no retreat—straight charge."
[Huh?]
Dull thuds echoed in control room.
"Pain in ass on ground. Air bombing? Breeze—easy hits."
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
10 cows pulped. Edge one flew skyward, legs in U, spinning.
[Home run!]
Snort escaped.
"Vs. people, one blast scatters 'em—more work. These? Nah."
[Vehicle fire stopped.]
"They get it. Outside, three bullets = meal."
Biggest blob: Lugnut.
"That bulk, rabid speed—no fatigue?"
[Four lungs.]
LUNGS: 4 (2x Chest, 2x Abdomen) — Massive Volume (50% Torso)
EFFECT: Extreme Endurance / Off-Road Sprint
"News to me."
Pfwoosh! Fiery missile curved to match sprint.
KABOOOM!
Flames and dirt engulfed it. No limbs—just rolling meat chunks.
[Cows again.]
"Got 'em."
Grenades bloomed anew.
[Perfect!]
"Predator buffet tonight."
Whites everywhere: molten dirt, blood sprays, twitching fresh meat.
"Wonder the smell. Nutty? Love fieldwork."
[Eww.]
Artemis shuddered. Chase cleared.
[See that?]
"What?"
Popup: thumbs-up barrage from windows. Bikers raised weapons in cheers.
"Bit early."
[Yeah. 11 o'clock: downed bus blocks path.]
Zoom out confirmed.
[Clear it?]
"Blast it? Your precision gig."
[As wished.]
'Auto combat' blinked top-screen.
Pfwoosh! Missile nailed bus rear underside.
KRABOOM!
Bus flipped 1.5 times into paddy—road intact. Insane fire control.
Auto off, control mine.
"Done?"
[Tons infected, no real threats. Op complete. Good job.]
Sigh of relief—coffee arrived. Warm cup thawed hands as convoy sped through white pools.
[Thanks. You saved our lives.]
Safe zone reached, Eugene's group parked, effusive gratitude. Awe at firepower etched faces.
"You endured tough trek. Regret can't take you. Farewell gift..."
Pad tap: drones dumped 5.56mm rounds—400+ easy.
[Whoa!]
[Thanks!]
Windfall faces—they'd trade for heaps at rest stops/camps. Covered losses, profit.
"Luck."
They bowed awkwardly; Eugene relieved, Jincheol sour. Last sight.
Days later, Brain Nerve Research Institute rewards time. Haul: two types.
One: bold unknowns—like swollen-head test subjects. Breakthrough potential, but early—failures galore.
Other: refine stable tech. Brain-assist implants—pricey but commercial, prepped for me. Plus useful derivatives.
Not just for me. Artemis. All puzzle pieces assembled.