Chapter 394
Chapter 394
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 17
Chapter Title: Travel Preparations (17)
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“An RV?”
“We’re going on a trip, right? I just crammed the armored truck with the bare essentials. Come on, let’s go have some fun. I know a great spot. How about five days?”
“A place the Metal Joe likes... It’s not some minefield where we’re digging, is it?”
“V-Very... p-positive points: sunset, shadows, wilderness...!”
“Ah, if you say so, I trust you. Let’s go. How many people?”
“Me, you, Vex, Ezelle, Dana, Rabbit, and Cynthia. Six in total. Just the family-tier lineup.”
“Ah, that sounds good. Let’s all go and take a group photo or something.”
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“Wow, you really secured a spot outside Sector 47 that’s livable for non-combatants?”
“A cave on a cliff? The view’s amazing! Ian, how’d you know about a place like this?”
“Kehehehe. It’s a well-known spot among the tough guys who’ve lived out here. There’s a breeding group of Type 2.5 mutants nearby. Thanks to the ‘hunters’ who’ve been pushing them back regularly lately, the variants have started avoiding the area. They’re living creatures too, so they steer clear of predators. With the variants gone, the hunters thinned out too, leaving it naturally empty. No people, no variants. Great scenery. And since hunters used to camp here, there’s even a shield generator planted. Just swap the battery, and it’s good to go. Pretty decent for safe fun, right?”
“Not like you to pick something so sensible. Alright, cheers to start things off? Dana, grab those cups over there!”
“Where’d I put the booze~ where’d I stash the booze~ Hey! Bunny girl! Time to give back Vex! We need him to grill meat!”
“Yeees~”
“Liver! Go grab the cups and the privacy screen! That dust cloud on the horizon looks iffy!”
“Booze! Gimme booze too!”
“You’re ten years too young, you little shit. Drink milk.”
“Boo-hoo!”
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“Die.”
“I’ll die.”
“[Death]”
“Annyeong.”
“Cynthia, two pair!”
“Kuhahaha! I’ve got king two pair, you tiny rat!”
“Flush~”
Crash!
“This is cheating! How does Rabbit never lose a single hand?!”
“The woman in front of you might just be the wasteland’s top two pros who live off games. Dumbasses can’t GG?”
“You telegraph your cards so hard with your face it’s basically screaming. Go do the dishes, last place.”
“Fuck this shit!”
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Bang!
Bang bang!
“Yeah. Tuck the buttstock into your shoulder like that, find your target. See it?”
“Mm, it’s too dark... hard to see.”
“If you scan around, you’ll sense the outline fuzzier than the rest by feel. Aim there, exhale slowly...”
Bang!
“H-Hit it!”
“Good job. Night shooting’s fun like this, huh?”
“Yeah... Glad I came.”
“Me too. Really... a perfect day. As close to pre-war peace as it gets. If every day was like today, I could let myself balloon to 120kg.”
“I should send Ian a gift later.”
“He’s a weirdo usually, but he delivers when it counts. This time, I almost want to bow to him...”
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“Professor. Professor!”
“Hm? Oh. You called?”
“You’ve been zoning out. What’re you thinking about?”
Dust-covered Dana and me, looking no better than a dirt clod.
“Ahh. Nothing much.”
Scraaape. Scraaaape—screeech!
Prying open a gap in the mangled metal heap with my hand reveals ruined machine parts beyond salvage, accompanied by an unpleasant metallic groan.
It was one of the two vehicles we’d called the “RV” until yesterday.
“...On the way back, I was thinking how to kill Ian and whoever planned this in the most painful way possible.”
“Ah, good idea.”
Meeting my venomous glare, Dana nodded eagerly—unusually so for her.
BDSM Family, Wasteland Camping Day 2.
Vehicle 1: Ian, Vex, Ezelle, Rabbit, Cynthia aboard. Currently fleeing in real-time from a local mutant bison herd.
Vehicle 2: Professor Park, Dana aboard. Isolated after failing to regroup while cleaning up the campsite.
Static—crackle—
Environmental interference kills wide-area comms.
All major survival gear loaded on Vehicle 1.
...Conclusion.
No vehicle.
No survival gear.
No water, no food.
One combat specialist, one intel specialist—down to two people stranded in the mutant-infested, disaster-ridden wasteland.
“I’ll kill them. No matter what, when I get back, I’ll skewer Ian and those dumbfucks on spikes and let the wasteland sandstorms grind them down slow...!”
I turned from the totaled vehicle, gazing at the horizon where the sun was just rising over the wasteland.
Amid the drab morning light, clusters of mutants roamed visibly now and then.
Wasteland Camping Day 2.
Vacation → Wild Survival.
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Clunk clunk, clank—
“One stainless steel spoon.”
“Spoon... one.”
“Poorly trampled but still bulletproof sheet metal, about 100kg.”
“Unworkable sheet metal 100kg.”
“And... six beers, five bottles of mystery booze, one rifle from yesterday’s shooting practice. Thirty rounds.”
“About 5 liters of booze and one rifle with thirty rounds. Water instead of booze?”
“None. All the water was on Vehicle 1.”
“Hmm... Only booze as a water sub. Troubling.”
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.
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“Anything else? Looks like a bit of space behind the truck’s inner wall?”
“Well, uh... it’s useless for survival...”
“What’re you talking about? We’re inventorying everything we’ve got, so spill it. What’s back there?”
Dana fetched a small charcoal chunk from the fire, scribbling on a rock as she eyed me. I... pulled out the utterly inexplicable item from the wrecked truck bed.
“...Gel-type waterbed. Thanks to the RV mods, there were inner walls in the back, and it survived wedged between them.”
Drip—
Dana’s charcoal snapped in her grip.
“...Loads of moisture-laden gel, wide and... tough vinyl. Could be useful.”
“Uh... yeah. Could make a makeshift poncho.”
“...Tricky. We can’t cross the wasteland on foot with this.”
Dana frowned at our piled-up junk.
Watching her, rage bubbled up from this morning’s events.
This morning—Camping Day 2.
Original plan: Drive a bit from camp, meet Jokass’s contact—a pro mutant hunter—for a look at real hunts and learn a thing or two.
Problem: Not long after departure, those damn mutant bison charged.
We call ’em bison for convenience, but they’re massive carnivorous variants weighing 3-4 tons each. An endless line of them barreled toward us!
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“Hey, hey hey hey! They’re coming! Right at us!!! Ezelle, you dumb fuck! You said they wouldn’t come even if we died!”
“N-No way? Big Head Bulls are notorious for being lazy variants—they don’t swarm like that unless you provoke ’em hard...!”
“Bullshit or not, they’re coming NOW! Heavy weapons! Where’s the heavy weapons!”
“Bro! Just go! Once they start charging, even a tank couldn’t stop ’em!”
“...Keys are gone.”
“What?! You fucking—”
“Fuck! Vehicle 1’s outta here first! We’ll draw their attention—Dana, Professor, you two climb up and hide! Camp’s got the privacy screen, so it’s safe!”
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...And for some godforsaken reason, truck-sized mutant bison one after another charged us.
Keys vanishing from Vehicle 2 left Dana and me no choice but to bail and head back to camp.
Vehicle 1 then got chased by the herd and leisurely vanished toward the Dome—
After huddling flat in a camp corner with Dana, waiting out the herd.
Once their noise faded, I radioed Vehicle 1 via my implant comms.
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“Static—crackle—Ahh, this sandstorm’s worse than—static!”
“Cut the crap and answer. It’s you, right?”
“Uh... sorry— It got bigger than we thought—”
“You call this the time?!”
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Ian confessed the second I reached him.
Suspicious signs weren’t few to begin with. Vanishing keys at a key moment, calorie-burning behemoths like Big Head Bulls charging full tilt, us conveniently on the ground in their path right then.
All orchestrated by Ian. Bringing us here, siccing the crazy mutant bison on us.
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Static—
“Ugh, comms are already shot.... Professor, my beloved dimwit friend. I—static! Did this all for you.”
“Why, ’cause I looked like I’d croak any second, so you thought painless death at peak happiness?”
“Calm down and listen. Couple trips are classic: car breaks down in the boonies, ferry back from the island’s next day lunch, inn has one room left.”
“...What?”
“Our group gift for you two. Five of us lure the herd to split vehicles—with Vehicle 1 ‘forced’ to flee first, your barely-fueled Vehicle 2 sputters to a safe spot just shy of the Dome. Then, night dew, wasteland, truck with just you two—you overcome crisis together, swing bridge effect maxed, lovers feel pounding hearts, etch history in a lonely world under the stars with just you two—”
“You motherfucking cocksucking shit-eating bastard asshole fuuuuuck!!!!”
“Cracklecrackle—didn’t expect. Hunters moved, so prey herd swelled—crackle—”
“Ugh, ughhh how’d I end up with a fucker like you. Whatever, got it—talk when we’re back. Vehicle 1 gets home safe, I’ll radio HQ for an inspection ride back. Got it?!”
“Crackle—crackle—didn’t wanna ruin the mood—checked weather ahead for the plan—crackle! Sandstorm’s cutting all signals—uh oh, this ain’t good—cracklecracklecrackle-----”
“Hey, hey! Vehicle 1! Metal Joe! You fucker!”
“Crackle, good lu—craaaaa-----”
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...That’s how it went down.
Ian and his crew took my “need a real break” super seriously—not settling for normal rest, they plotted this “once-in-a-lifetime memorable event.”
The group, meant to split with a casual “we’re going ahead~ catch up~,” instead suffered Vehicle 1 full escape, Vehicle 2 total wreck—catastrophic.
With metallic dust from the sandstorm frying my comms too, Dana and I are straight-up wasteland hobos tossed to the curb.
“What a fucking heart-pounding thrill they gave us. Goddamn dumbfucks.”
Click!
I checked the chamber of the sand-jammed rifle, roughly plotting our way back.
Hours by vehicle. On foot? Days of camping en route, at least.
Watching Dana puzzle over the scavenged junk from the wreck—
“Haaa. Fucking life.”
A sigh escaped me.
That slender girl and I must march the wasteland for days with gear worse than a scavenger’s. All thanks to my “friends’” kindness.
What a gloriously disastrous vacation.
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Whiiiish—
Flutter, flappaflutter!
Fierce sandwind wailed eerily, the vinyl poncho whipping its edges wildly.
Our kind Metal Joe’s fluffy waterbed, ruthlessly sliced, became a thick poncho against dust and wind.
Rifle wrapped tight in cloth and tied down. Dusty little bag held booze, leftover campfire charcoal, a bottle of scavenged truck fuel from the tank corner.
And.
“...We really have to go like this? I still have stamina—”
“Don’t underestimate the wasteland, Dana. Easier than carrying your heatstroked ass later.”
Strapped a small frame of sheet metal, parts, pipes tight to my back, sat Dana atop it.
Stay in safe camp, burn remaining supplies waiting out storm? Or hoof it across wasteland for self-rescue?
Dana’s find—a small bag—decided it.
‘...Survival cache?’
‘Yeah. Old intel sources made spots like this, buried bags of essentials for emergencies.’
Dana poked hunter campsites here and there, easily unearthing a weathered bag.
Rusty revolver, eight damp rounds.
Five inedible jerky chunks, one rank-smelling metal canteen.
And a hand-drawn map.
I’d made my own back in solo survivor days, so reading it was easy.
Marked paths to Dome from this hunter camp, danger zones, rest spots, water sources.
“Map says 3-4 days on foot to patrol areas.”
“Really... leaving’s the right call? No water, but ration booze for days, hunt for food with the rifle despite low ammo...”
“Uncertain. Storms can last over a month, booze isn’t drinkable—decomposing alcohol uses more water than it gives. And getting drunk in danger zones? Perfect way to die. Map makes breakthrough safer.”
Clank!
Dana plus metal frame. Rifle and assorted gear atop—60-70kg maybe.
‘Half-mutant perks.’
Good thing: unnatural body handles this weight fine. Test steps? Stamina good.
Final checks on straps, then charcoal-marked our direction big on camp.
Scraaatch!
Mid-arrow on ground, instinct-snagged something zipping by.
“Chit! Chiiik! Kiiik!”
“Professor, that’s...?”
“Rat snail. Sniffing yesterday’s scraps.”
Wasteland’s notoriously unpopular critter all-round. Stared at the goo-smeared fistful, snapped its neck, hung it under the bag.
“?”
“Can’t catch else, lunch.”
“...You eat that? Heard rat snail meat’s for torture or grudges.”
“No poison. Rumor: chew a bit to wake drunks or dosed. Wake screaming like from hell.”
“...Edible, then.”
Dana grabbed the dangling rat snail, squeezed like toothpaste for goo, smeared on poncho holes and joints. Right—its fluids block radiation too.
Slathered goo on poncho and exposed skin, standing in sand-laced wind—we looked like sand golems trudging the wastes.
“Hehehehe.”
“Hey miss, something funny? Share the laugh?”
“Nah, back in Sector 38 underground library, I romanticized wasteland life. Thought free outdoors beat radiation bunker drudgery, even if tough.”
“Sigh. So? Impressions of real wasteland life, dirtball Dana-yang?”
“Hmm... Not bad. Got a obedient sturdy ride.”
“Glad you like, miss. Sandman on sandman—better hide if we spot hunters before begging mercy.”
Clank, clank.
Thus, back-to-back with Dana, trading dumb jokes as we stepped into the dusty wasteland.
Sandwind whoosh, crunching footsteps. Rickety metal frame jangles, little breaths from behind.
“...Might not need to kill ’em.”
“Hm? Professor, what?”
“Ah, nothing.”
Bit grueling aside, vibe like world’s just us two hit hard—hard to deny.
If I broaden my mind veeeery wide... this counts as “rest”...?
Clank. Clank. Jangle!
Quiet frame sounds chased wordless thoughts.
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