Chapter 157
Chapter 157
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 157
Chapter Title: Chapter 10 Lead and Silver Coins (11)
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****
Beep-. Beep-.
[Signal confirmed. Signals (40.384.72630) / (40.384.57106) / (40.384.22498) cluster point 75 meters away.]
Static-
[Road conditions good. Large plastic panel on the left—hug the right side.]
Static-
“Confirmed. Comms off until visual confirmation of signal point.”
Static-
[Confirmed.]
Static-
[Confirmed.]
With Ian’s hushed voice marking the end, only the eerie whistle of wind and the engine’s hum filled their ears.
Oh, and one more thing. The pounding of my heartbeat, drumming loudly right behind my ear like someone beating a drum.
Every time the massive armed truck’s wheels crunched over a branch or shard of glass, goosebumps rippled across my skin, and my hand darted to the loaded pistol over and over.
Countless distress signals spotted at the entrance to Zone 40.
The closest ones were less than 20 meters away, and soon after confirming the signal points, we crept forward as silently as possible, threading the truck through that cemetery of signals like we were crawling.
Static-
[Signal point confirmed. Old van. Buggy. Shelter. Not targets.]
Static-
[Radar overheating. About 5 minutes until max runtime. Push it more, and it might break.]
Static-
Ezel’s voice, silent until now, crackled over the comms. That horror at the Zone 40 entrance. After seeing the endless line of abandoned vehicles blinking distress signals without their owners, the chatterbox had clamped his mouth shut. Me, Ian, Vex—veterans who’d seen plenty of carnage—but even we couldn’t stop the cold sweat in the face of that bizarre scene.
‘At least if there’d been bodies, it would’ve been better.’
No one in the group was a stranger to mountains of corpses and rivers of blood, but a massacre site without even a drop of blood or a single body? We’d never seen or imagined anything like it.
Vehicles of every kind, camping trailers, shopping carts stuffed with junk, massive backpacks.
The signals all originated from hastily packed piles of belongings, but their owners had vanished without leaving so much as a drop of blood behind.
The reason we called it a massacre was simple.
No bodies. No blood. But everything at the signal points bore clear signs of being torn apart and smashed to pieces.
The Professor raised his binoculars to check the shelter’s condition, then whispered into the comms.
Static-
[Tire tracks only go in—no signs of coming out. Walls over 80% destroyed, half-wrecked turret with melted barrel. Looks like the people here gathered at this shelter during evacuation and fought an unknown enemy. Shelter itself seems in decent shape. Any objections, speak now.]
Static-
[Claw marks and footprints matching the ones we’ve seen, near the ceiling. Probably entered through the skylight.]
[No exit marks. Meaning whatever shrank our balls to mung bean size might still be inside. I vote we go in.]
[Me too. We need a break anyway—for radar cooldown and our own condition. Better a half-ruined shelter than open ground.]
[No other life signs nearby. I agree.]
Static-
“Unanimous. Kill the engine, raise the bubble. I’ll go in first to secure the shelter, then we move the vehicles inside.”
[Click.]
No verbal reply—just the heavy metallic clack of weapons, so the others in the other truck must’ve had fingers half on their triggers too.
Click, whirr—click, click-click—
The Geiger counter still read Level 5 radiation, no drop. Far below meaningless readings at nuclear blast centers or Chernobyl/Fukushima’s Level 7, but enough to kill anyone exposed.
The bubble shield traded defense and repair speed for low power use and perfect isolation. Meaning a graze in combat meant radiation exposure right then and there.
‘That’s why I wanted to keep it at range or avoid combat altogether...’
Unfortunately, all he held in his right hand was a large-caliber pistol. He’d gotten used to using his left for fiddly work, but shooting was another matter, leaving him stuck with one-handed pistol use.
Luckily, this mutant left arm had aced the radiation test with 0% absorption—a miracle. If combat happened and enemies closed in, he’d have to be the first out front. At least the left arm could block bullets without worrying about the bubble peeling off.
Shrrrp—slap!
[Ugh, this mask never gets comfortable no matter how many days I wear it.]
‘Keeps you alive, so I’ve rationalized it into being kinda comfy.’
The gray skin mask, with six tubes stretching back from the front, looked rigid outside but felt soft—and creepy—inside. Bite down lightly on the protruding breathing tube at the mouth, and it suctioned to the face with a slap, something squirming inside giving a seriously gross vibe. A living bio-filter through and through. But it filtered everything from radiation to dust perfectly, so the creep factor was bearable.
Once the skin mask sealed fully to his face, he grabbed the comms.
Static-
[Count of five, then breach. Ezel, suit up in the mech just in case and hold. Triangle formation. I’m point, you two cover and rear.]
Static-
[...Confirmed.]
Ssssh—in deep breath, out slow.
Exhaling deeply to hold the right tension, he gripped the door handle with his left hand.
[5. 4. 3. 2. 1—]
Bang!
Bang bang!
As the count hit zero, Ian and Vex kicked open the Hummer’s doors up front.
Tatatak!
In seconds, the trio formed up, flashing quick hand signals to confirm breach directions before diving into the ruined shelter.
The tension of real combat buzzed down his spine to his fingertips.
****
That night.
Huddled under tarps in the shelter like kids on a school trip playing cards in a blanket fort, the group pooled their intel by the dim glow of a small flashlight. Warm stew-slurping sounds bubbled up between them. Far from home in Zone 40, but the shelter’s auto-cooker stew tasted just like mom’s back home, giving a fleeting sense of return.
Yeah, the auto-cooker. Against expectations, no enemies inside—the interior facilities mostly intact despite the wrecked exterior. Just to be sure, they’d pried open the control panel...
“Damn it. Feels weird saying this, but it’s so peaceful I’m seeing things.”
Power, shields, stealth field—everything worked perfectly, nothing missing. Without exterior threats, they could’ve lit up and relaxed easy.
“If you think it’s an illusion, slap yourself—not me!”
“Sorry. You sent ‘all clear,’ then we breach combat-ready... and you look so pathetic, I couldn’t help it.”
Rubbing his red-swollen cheek, Ezel pointed accusingly at the culprit: Ian.
“Put yourself in my shoes! We’ve been seeing nothing but haunted scenes, then the team comes in armed to the teeth with a battle plan and radios back just ‘all clear’! You think that sounds really ‘all clear,’ or like we got taken out by whatever’s in there? Look even now! Clear entry and fight marks, but no exit traces!”
“Um... Angel? Can we drop it? It’s scary, okay?”
Prickly Ian, yelling Ezel, Vex starting to ramble again after seeming normal lately.
After days of hyper-tension against imaginary foes, the group was on edge.
Including me. No sounds but wind nearby, traces everywhere, my own noises grating like crazy. Even breathing felt off, and in that maddening silence, the urge to blast the klaxon—BWAAAH!—wasn’t just once or twice.
[Get a grip. Everyone’s off, you lose it too and we’re done.]
‘I know. Gotta fix this somehow.’
Why I was better off: Hyde. No noise worries, full chats anytime. Lately scarce with “busy” or “sleepy” excuses, but sensing the gravity, Hyde nonstop cracked dumb jokes in my head, keeping me steady.
‘Well, veterans like us won’t panic at this level...’
“Ghosts aren’t real, idiot. If they were, think I’d still be alive? If even 1/10th of the people I’ve killed ghosted up, I’d have a Lord of the Rings ghost army.”
“Then explain this! Monster traces, bullet marks, explosions everywhere. Endless skid marks from fleeing vehicles. But no bodies, no blood! Some ghost-type mutant prowling?”
Spouting nonsense like that, he wasn’t quite his usual self. Time to sort it out. Lay out the clear facts, calm the chaos.
“Mutants are virus-altered bodies. Physical, explainable. Not ghosts.”
Riiip.
The Professor spread a dusty map under lantern light, charcoal in hand.
“Let’s start with what we’ve confirmed. Distress signals first. How many, Ezel?”
“Hold on. Noted it... Here. 65 buggies, 12 shelters, 55 regular vehicles, 56 misc like carts, wagons, packs. Total 188 points. 47 hours radar time—about 4 per hour. Wasteland solo survivor groups average 3, so casualties estimated at 564.”
“Signal origins?”
“This. Portable loggers from Dome 38. No GG, time ratio matches real-world. Tough to keep up with chat, so for recordings or markets. Zone 40 has plenty of full loggers for settlers, but nomads prefer these.”
“Oh, that. Used one trading a few times. Pricey, durability trash. 2-hour lag to community post—not great for real-time. Junk?”
Ezel’s item: seen it in markets. Couldn’t run GG due to tech limits, but accessed public comms. Miniaturized by stripping body-fit, temp control, life support—unneeded without game.
“So victims mostly nomads... right?”
“Yeah. Full loggers cheap from domes for players; portables pricey for non-gamers. Settlers don’t need expensive portables.”
The Professor noted [Victims mostly nomads], then marked signal points.
“Good. Next: enemy intel?”
“Victims were solos—bullet ricochets opposite assumed enemy positions, same caliber. Likely deflected off enemy bodies. Explosion scorch marks cut off mid-air often. Shields don’t do that, so armored creature or bipedal tank.”
“Uh... I see it differently. Vehicle shred marks from claws or big bladed polearm. Not human—feline-like. Claw tip gouges in prints, some retracted. Can hide claws.”
“Whatever, enemy toyed with victims. All had loggers sent signals—except those without. Not ambush; victims sensed doom, had time to signal! Miss a couple, fine—but all? Enemy had no intent to strike fast. Casually approached, laughed off struggles, took them clean—no bones, no blood! Ugh, what else but ghosts?!”
“Bullshit. So armored feline ghost? Too innovative even for spooks.”
“...New Type 3 mutant maybe. Like Zone 27’s [Green World Serpent] or 44’s [Walking Cane]—territorial bosses.”
Type 3 mutant. At the words, the debating group nodded in unison.
“That happen overnight?”
“Not before. But what else fits this nonsense?”
“...”
One more possibility, but the Professor swallowed it—might worsen panic.
What he’d noted scouting signals.
Sharply gouged traces everywhere, sand caught between.
In endless sandstorm wastes, fresh damage and trapped fine sand estimated fight times.
Rough calc by position and wind: shocking.
‘No gear for precision... but all hit about four days ago. Same exact time, not spread over 24 hours.’
47 hours to here. 10-15 kph slow advance, constant except brief signal checks.
Under 7 min per point: covered ~330km.
Seoul-Busan distance.
Victims scattered along it hit within an hour or two margin. Sand amounts chaotic—not sequential buildup—and time to signal meant no hyper-speed raider.
Existed in multiple places simultaneously. Or near enough.
Irrelevant back then, but I’d met one.
[White-suited man. White suit and... huh? Flashlight too...]
‘You don’t remember either? Talked, traded—but face? Nothing but suit and voice.’
[Pleasure to meet you, ‘professor’. I’m ‘W’ from Artists’ Union.
Man who bought painting and watch from Zone 45 months ago. Weird rumors: always first at meets, any place/time.
“...Food done? Three hours sleep, then move.”
“We’re a day from Dome 38 influence. Keep checking signals?”
“...No. One more stop, straight to dome.”
“One more?”
“Yeah, here.”
The Professor checked one coordinate on Ezel’s map.
“In this fog of war, a contact who’d help most.”
New mutant unknown to all? Maybe. But Artists’ Union, long-time wasteland vets—sure to have intel.
[40.227.90381]
Matching his notebook coord, he folded the map with a grim face.
“Didn’t want to meet like this... Know he’s no ordinary guy, so hope he didn’t go down easy.”
His notebook read: [40.227.90381] ‘Speed Wagon’ / ‘Contact area? Business? Meet anyway.’
****