Chapter 80
Man's best friend, the dog. Humanity's longtime companion. It gazes with unwavering affection at owners who are poor or unattractive, who stutter or dress unfashionably, who are too fat or too skinny. No matter the flaw, it's a fool that can't fully hate even those who abuse it. Man's best friend: the dog.
But in this post-apocalypse, humanity has gained a more loyal, more capable friend. No need to carry poop bags on walks—it even flies. The drone.
Footage from a reconnaissance drone on an external op streamed into the Central Control Room. The upgraded model Artemis refined uses a tilt-rotor system with just two rotors, not a multicopter. Flight stability suffers, but Artemis pilots it directly to solve that. Fewer rotors mean better fuel efficiency for long-range flights, and boosted output increases payload capacity. Tilting its fuselage aggressively as it charges forward at ferocious speed—brave as hell! And there's another feature that makes this drone special.
> Target radius entered.
"Target radius entered," Artemis said. Red text appeared in the center of the screen.
5-Minute Standby Truck Scout
This was an armed drone, an ultimate masterpiece refined repeatedly from Shelter drone bases. Named Scout, with more variants in development.
"Nice view."
The screen showed it blasting through the forest canopy at high speed—just watching melted away my stress. Distance to target plummeted as it zipped past countless trees: 300 meters. 200 meters. 100 meters. And finally, the destination. Red warning text flashed in the screen's center again.
Walkers x3
Walker: humanoid Infected with no special traits. Name confirmed during recent Infected classification, borrowed from that famous American zombie drama.
A road stretched at the forest's edge. On the shoulder lay a flipped military truck, one Walker shambling nearby.
> Firing commenced.
Yellow flashes sparkled at the screen's bottom—muzzle flare caught on camera. The plain-clothed Walker loitering by the truck sprayed blood from its torso and collapsed.
The view shifted to the truck cab. Hovering head-on, the drone revealed two more Walkers in uniform, belted into the driver and passenger seats as monsters.
> Lieutenant Park Jin-woo. Corporal Kim Won-il.
Artemis read their uniform name tags. Emaciated like mummies, they stared vacantly at the drone. Yellow flashes at the bottom punched holes in the windshield. Plastic crumpled and cracked; beyond, the driver's nose and mouth exploded, head lolling. Moments later, the passenger Walker met the same end.
Eliminated.
Heads slumped lifelessly in the seats. Cross-checked via three camera angles, then "elimination complete" on screen. With annihilation done, the drone moved to the next command.
Search.
The drone circled the truck, scanning cargo status. This was a 5-minute combat standby vehicle dispatched to MetaCraft Cybernetics at war's outbreak. No clue why it ended here, but what mattered was the cargo hold. Active-duty unit meant standard-issue gear aboard—that's why we sent the drone.
Nothing salvageable, though. No trace of the troops packed in back like cargo. Their gear gone too. Did they survive and move out? Or did survivors scavenge the dead's equipment? Driver and passenger were unarmed. No way to know now.
> Withdraw?
"Yeah."
The base this truck came from was already scouted by another drone—stripped bare, even combat supplies.
Return.
The view pulled away sharply from the ground. Skyrocketing upward, the drone revealed barren earth, empty roads, rows of abandoned vehicles. No sign of humans anywhere. These recon ops ran simultaneously across multiple sites. The screen switched to another drone reaching its target.
Walkers x2
Yellow flashes below, and two Walkers hit the deck in a pool of blood. A gas station.
. . .
No stored fuel detected.
"Bust?" Military or survivors must've drained every drop.
[...]
Artemis didn't say it, but she was clearly disappointed. No idea why, but she loved scavenging fuel. Sure, oil's gold these days, but not for the Shelter—we run a fusion plant, zero energy worries. Some vehicles need it, but our reserves last ages without external hunts. Especially now, with residents—especially luxury-loving VIPs—wiped out, even more surplus.
Yet Artemis lights up at oil like a fiend, hauling it back. Once I joked about WD-40; got scolded for lame humor. Said I couldn't grasp her oil obsession, she pouted.
You go nuts collecting worthless stacks of cash too, don't you? Who do you think sterilizes and stores every single bill for you?
Fair point. Pre-war money's just toilet paper now, but hey, I like stacking it. Feels good just looking.
Chatting idly with Artemis, recon continued.
Slave Dogs x3
Mid-mountain campsite this time. Under twenty tents, half torn or collapsed, but plenty intact.
Kaaang!
Infected dogs around barked at the drone. Animal Infected get "Slave" prefix—"Slave Dog" for dogs. Their barks twisted from sharp yaps to long, eerie wails.
Kieeek—!
Walkers poured from tents in response. Thermoregulation? Or reliving final memories? Zombie flicks often went with the latter.
The drone circled, herding Infected like mobbing mobs pre-AoE in an RPG. Once bunched, it opened fire. Dogs first—easier static. Two small ones shredded in seconds; the big one took three to the body, two to the head, then silence. Bullets then rained on Walkers.
Click!
Ammo out after seven Walkers down. Auto-reload swapped mags, then finished the rest.
No worthwhile loot. Food, water, sundries—all stocked or producible in-Shelter. Close enough for security sweep anyway.
Then a nagging doubt hit.
"Kinda weird."
What is?
"Beast Infected ratios seem skewed. Tons of dog mutants, but cats? Almost none."
Cats resistant? Or wilder, faster escape artists?
Artemis had a theory ready.
One hypothesis.
"What?"
I took the lemon tea from the serving robot. How'd she know I craved sour over coffee? Magic.
From our data, infection thrives only on land. Ocean has few massive Infected; marine ecosystems untouched. More vibrant than pre-war, sans human traces—corals and fish abound.
True. Post-manta-beast discovery, submersible drones confirmed it.
Aerial ecosystems same—cleaner even. No big Infected. Lets us drone freely.
Skies spotless, unlike oceans.
Combine: infection as engineered weapon.
I'd suspected as much. Unlike media zombies or alien viruses—devastating yet self-limiting paradoxes. Fits purpose-built weapon.
"Like a neutron bomb?" Kills people, spares infrastructure—eco tactical nuke.
Close. Wars prioritize securing land/resources over kills—sometimes slaughter's the goal, revenge or faith.
Land: civilization's core—wipe clean. Sea same: carriers/sub bases hold out long, potential footholds.
"Hence ocean mega-Infected?"
Yes. Oceans ease weight limits—deploy big, smart heavies. Versus superpower navy: 30,000 boats or 100 destroyers?
No-brainer.
"Makes skies clean too—planes must land. Ground falls, pilots choose: crash into Infected swarm screaming or full-throttle dirt dive painless."
"Wipe land, preserve skies/seas—claim planet. Ruthless."
Target dominant species—humans. Livestock tied to human civ as collaborators.
"Dogs?"
Artemis pulled up footage instead. Likely old cattle farm. Infected cows appeared—carnivores now, no gentle bovine eyes.
Recon shows civilization-contributing livestock more infected. Tiny pathogen distinguishes somehow.
Dogs/cows: human vanguard. Cats: just diners.
Not confirmed. Needs more research. Outworld labs may yield truths.
Her voice brimmed with confidence.
"More reasons to venture out."
...Don't use as excuse for your wanderlust.
She sounded torn between joy and ire. Easy fix: topic switch to cheer her.
"This is good. Another cup."
Serving bot delivered instantly, like waiting.
Complex vitamin health drink. Drink up.
Tartness cleared my head. Zero sugar, still perfect.