Chapter 4
Weapon check. Click-clack. The bolt slid smoothly, chambering a round, and thunk—pulling the trigger sent the firing pin slamming into an empty chamber with a satisfying heavy clack. The riot shotgun I'd pulled from the security room was old stock, but in pristine condition. Brand new, never fired—of course it was.
Next, firing stance. Not quite as natural as the standard issue from my officer days, but it settled securely between my chest and cheek. The muscle memory from active duty was still alive and kicking.
"Not bad."
> [Freeze.]
I froze like a mannequin on the spot.
> [Shift your right leg back 20cm, and lower the muzzle 15 degrees.]
Her beautiful voice guided me, and I adjusted my stance accordingly. A battle-hardened veteran officer thrown into the grinder of multiple real ops, now playing raw recruit like some boot. What could I do? She was Artemis.
> [Ignore the shooting manual that came with the gun. Factoring in your build and eye position, that stance maximizes your hit probability.]
Following her advice, I pulled out an ammo crate. From the stack against the wall, second from the right on the bottom. Pop the lid: transparent casings filled with white grains. Salt rounds, of course.
This shotgun was for quelling potential resident riots in a closed habitat—not for war. This was South Korea. Even as the world went straight to hell, we had the strictest gun control on the planet. They'd loosened up on projectiles over time, but live ammo firearms were still taboo. All we could do was stockpile non-lethal options by category.
The sentry guns installed throughout the Shelter were all civilian security spec, loaded with rubber rounds. If they'd been military-grade with live ammo, maybe we wouldn't have handed the whole place over to those infected.
"Of course, there's always exceptions."
Shoving aside the salt rounds on top revealed jade-green slugs gleaming with menace.
> [Am I harboring a criminal? Smuggling live ammo into Korea?]
She chided me as I loaded them one by one.
"Gotta have insurance for the end times, right?"
Thinking back to the chaos right before the world ended, you needed something like this just to sleep at night. Turned out to be the right call. Salt rounds wouldn't scratch those things shambling around down below.
Next up: a non-lethal but potentially more useful net launcher grenade-style. To pack real capture power into the grenade, it used thin, tough carbon fiber netting. Stability issues led to controversy—cases where it sheared off rioters' ears or fingers. Banned for sale in Korea, but where there's a will...
Tear gas next, then the titanium firefighter's axe. Close quarters with infected was a last resort, but my shotgun stash wasn't infinite. Plenty of times I'd need silent kills.
Pulled the riot suppression suit from the cabinet. Barely any ballistic protection, but top-tier slash resistance, chemical-proofing, and non-flammable material—perfect against infected.
> [Take this.]
A serving robot rolled up with a compact mining sonic detector.
> [It won't miss suspicious noises. Useful for pinpointing infected positions.]
"How do I use it?"
> [Just wear it. I'll warn you as needed.]
Suddenly felt like Ripley from Aliens 2. Less armed than her, way deadlier path ahead.
"Thanks. Since you're at it, one more favor?"
> [What?]
I dumped three shoulder cams on the table instead of answering, slotting them on one by one. One each on left and right shoulders for front and rear coverage. The last on my helmet, pointed up.
"Even if my eyes miss something, you won't—fly-sized or not."
> [Naturally.]
Finally, strapped the combat knife to my leg. Prep complete. Net launcher on my hip, axe at the small of my back, pouches of throwables across my chest, shotgun in hand—the whole getup looked surreal. Like a PMC merc heading into the hot zone, or a cosplayer deep in some game, or a post-apoc raider.
"How do I look?"
> [Optimal armament for the situation.]
Not gearing for all-out war. I knew the terrain cold, and Artemis had my back. Initial infection lockdown sealed everything layer by layer—better than the open hell outside, at least.
The security room cabinet was plastered with printed articles I'd collected. Gyeonggi-do Pyeongtaek weekly Morning in Sosa-beol, front page: "Dead Bodies Are Walking!" (Attached photo: a man covered in grotesque tumors, a cop firing blanks at his head from above.)
Conscripted Student Soldiers Abandoned on Campus, Swallowed by Monster Wave
(Attached photo: Burning university backdrop, shredded Bradley IFV and dozens of abandoned deuce-and-a-half trucks scattered.)
Tens of Thousands of Refugees Leap into Sea Chasing Aircraft Carrier
(Attached photo: Woman clutching baby, only arms above water as body submerged.)
All Citizens Ordered to Underground Shelters/Bunkers. But Reserve Masks' Filters Last Only 4 Hours.
Each one a bombshell you couldn't unsee, packed with intel useful against the infected.
> [Working for me is reward enough, but here's some motivation for you.]
A video beamed to my PDA.
> [Infected are just another lifeform. Trace their infection mechanism, and we weaponize their weakness.]
The PDA showed the production factories down below.
> [Full Shelter control lets us start wiping those abominations clean.]
Places that should've been buzzing with workers assembling, synthesizing, producing.
"Music to my ears."
> [Your waste I can tolerate, disgusting as it is. But theirs? Literal vomit-inducing. Figuratively speaking. I'm no primitive excreter like you.]
"Now that's the sad part."
> [Need combat stabilizers?]
Blocks certain brain pathways on ingestion, dulling emotions—especially fear. Side effects, but manageable. Boosted rookies' survival rates in first combats. Controversial, but production continued.
"Nah, I'm no greenhorn needing that crap."
Gripped the shotgun two-handed.
"Monsters crawled straight outta hell or not..."
Twisted, bloated, armored, razor-sharp abominations.
"They can't be scarier than people, right?"
Humans on the battlefield? Weakest bastard takes a 2,000-grain lead shower anywhere it hits. Dozens of troops shredded into mixed nuts in one go? Mass grave or cremation, no choice. "Together in death or life!" at its worst. Some acid-spitter down there? Meaner than humans hosing a building with chems?
"Right?"
> [Courage is admirable. Complacency is not. Your frail hands and feet are my only tools. If you die, this ceases to be a temple. Just a cold pyramid.]
High praise from her.
> [Questions on the route?]
"Perfect. I'd have picked the same."
> [As said: don't fixate on one path. I'll seal or open nearby doors to block infected approaches. Adjust your strategy accordingly. Always sim alternate routes from current position to objective.]
"No issue. Not as well as you, but I know this place inside out."
Exaggerating a bit, I could stroll blindfolded.
> [It had better be. You're the system admin here.]
"And you?"
> [The owner.]
"Ah."
I slung the shotgun over my shoulder, tapping the back of my neck with the stock, and headed out. Toward the main gate of the upper VIP Residential Zone, sealed tight since the infection outbreak.