Departure, Return. (2)
Rain was falling. Just last night, the sky had been clear with the moon hanging bright, but now as the sun began to rise, fat drops started plummeting out of nowhere. And then it turned into a downpour.
Summer skies are way too fickle, I thought, tilting my face up into the rain.
Who knew when all those clouds had rolled in.
"Ready!"
At the shout from one of the US soldiers, the troops—lined up in ranks facing each other—raised their rifles toward the distant sky.
"Set!"
Fingers hooked onto triggers.
"Fire!"
Tat-tat-tang!
And then it repeated.
The bodies of the US soldiers they'd pulled from the rubble were crushed and mangled beyond recognition—not a single one intact. With no coffins available, they'd gathered the fallen neatly, wrapped each in an American flag, and decided on a makeshift cremation. They dismantled furniture and piled it up on one side of the runway, laying the flag-draped corpses on top. Then they doused it all in gasoline.
In front of the pyre, US soldiers in their dress uniforms stood in formation and fired their salute. After a few volleys, one lit the wood.
Even in the downpour, the gasoline-soaked bodies and timber roared to life.
A few civilians and soldiers who'd called the dead friends or family wiped at their eyes—as if brushing away raindrops.
There were no eulogies. Too many had died since the apocalypse for words now. Us, them—it didn't matter. They just watched the flames.
After the ceremony, as people dispersed, the crutches-clicking US commander approached me. Under an umbrella held by a subordinate, he spoke.
"No umbrella for you?"
I smirked and glanced up at the sky.
"I'm good. Feels refreshing."
I met his gaze. The guy's wounds were still bad. Not just his leg—thick bandages wrapped his head, covering one eye. I'd thought it was just blood keeping it shut, but it looked like the eye was gone. Rain like this probably wasn't helping.
I asked, "What's next?"
He gave a wry smile. "Can't fly choppers in this weather. Hell if I know. Fancy a drink?"
A drink?
"Relocation... all set?"
He nodded. "Weapons have been loaded for a while. Just enough for one Chinook. Remember?"
Oh yeah. The arsenal from last night.
...That mountain of guns was just one Chinook's worth?
Loading all that into our defenses would make us untouchable. Ammo stacked in crates, too.
I nodded slowly. "We'll take it. Thanks."
He shook his head. "You earned it. More than qualified."
He smirked. "Last I saw, you were pretty banged up. Won't ask how you're walking around bandageless and fine. I'd just be shocked again anyway."
I couldn't help but chuckle.
He continued, "I want to say 'let's work together again,' but part of me hopes we don't. Who knows what shit we'll face next."
He nodded to the soldier holding his umbrella. The young guy handed me a plastic case like a toolbox.
What the hell?
"Satellite radio," the commander said as I took it. "Communications might cut out anytime. Better safe."
Nice. A radio.
He smiled at me. "I'd like regular contact. We'll help where we can, and when we need it, you help us."
He extended his hand.
I eyed it, then smirked. "Once your folks head back to the States, mutual aid might be tricky."
He laughed. "Info sharing's valuable enough, right?"
His hand stayed out, smile steady.
Info sharing, huh.
...Even across the ocean, allies are allies.
I gripped his hand. Mine was soaked; he squeezed tight and shook slowly.
Meanwhile, Seong Ga-yeon, who'd been translating, whispered, "Sung-hoon, villagers incoming."
Villagers?
I turned. A crowd was approaching through the rain.
...Figures.
I glanced at the commander. "Got any weapons to spare for them?"
He eyed the group, then nodded slowly. "No issue there. Tell you what—I'll have the Chinook drop some crates of ammo and guns. You distribute to the locals."
Huh? Why bother with that hassle?
He grinned. "They hate our guts anyway. We're leaving soon. Building ties between you stay-behinds and them? Works for us."
Hm... Fair point.
Seong Gyu-hyuk murmured low, "Sounds good. No bad blood fixed by late weapons anyway."
I nodded. "Let's do it."
The commander grinned and turned. "Villagers are yours then. Oh, Mr. Hoon—that your name?"
Mr. Hoon? I snorted, turning back.
"Got some decent whiskey in my room. Swing by if you're interested."
Eh, not big on booze. But cigars? Now we're talking.
The villagers drew closer. I nodded to the commander and faced them.
His footsteps faded with the umbrella guy's, mixing with the villagers' approach—and splashing from the hangar. Probably relaying orders.
Special Forces and I waited as they arrived.
The first to speak was the big guy who'd shot at me. Soaked, no umbrella, he scratched his head sheepishly and bowed.
"Uh... sorry about the other day."
"Don't go shooting at people. You're not a bandit," Seong Ga-yeon snapped.
Her voice was sharp. Face said she was pissed.
The big guy just bowed repeatedly, mumbling apologies.
I raised a hand to calm her and eyed him. About a hundred villagers behind—some farmers from the village, others survivors from the commercial district below. All together now, one camp.
A hundred...
I said, "What brings you? Need weapons?"
The big guy just bowed, speechless.
An old man stepped forward, nodding. "That's right. Wanted to talk it over with you."
Grandpa. Familiar face—the one who'd worried about me fighting that monster cat.
I smiled. "Weapons given, then what? Rob more people at gunpoint?"
The big guy's face flushed; he bowed deeper.
Grandpa shook his head. "No way. Look at us, sir. We're no soldiers or bandits. We're farmers. Crops just planted when this hit—barely enough hands for these fields."
...Farmers.
Right—this place was massive farmland. Fields big enough to surround a city-sized base.
"We need weapons to protect ourselves," grandpa said. "Can't have man-eaters prowling rice, barley, peppers, cabbage patches."
...Farmland. Crops.
This was... promising.
I tilted my head. "Tractors?"
"Yeah, we use 'em. Why not?"
"Fuel's gonna get scarce."
An ajumma stepped up. "Got cows and pigs too. Barns back there."
Ah, old-school farming.
I cocked my head. "Livestock unchanged?"
She sighed. "Many mutated. Lucky ones were penned up—some survived, some didn't. First thing after US guns: culled the changed ones. Plenty healthy left for plowing."
Hm. Harness the survivors.
Curious now. "Breeding stock? Calves and piglets?"
"Offspring from survivors are fine. No mutants."
I nodded slowly. Not bad.
"Alright. Weapons it is. But with conditions."
The big guy looked up. "Conditions...?"
I smiled. "Plenty survivors in Seoul. We'll give weapons—trade for crops. Other support too."
I glanced at Seong Gyu-hyuk. Cool?
He whispered, "President won't mind."
Yeah. Handing over some of ten tons of their weapons for food? Empower self-defense, mutual aid. Min Jeong-woo's style.
"Deal?"
Farmers exchanged looks, faces brightening.
Grandpa said, "We'll take what you give. Need rice? It's yours."
...Perfect.
I stepped forward, eyeing the big guy. He met my gaze, tense.
The man who'd pulled a trigger on me.
Grandpa was kind, but we needed steel here. To guard our food growers.
"...Alliance?"
I offered my hand.
He stared, then gripped it—face awed.
"...Sorry again. Absolutely. Just say the word."
I smirked, clapped his shoulder.
Done. Food secured.