Guns and Blood (1)
Level increased.
Oh. About a dozen zombies gathered at the café. Thanks to them, I leveled up.
I dumped a point into Strength, bringing it to 56, then headed to the next house.
Human Beasts have this distinctive breathing. A growling sound, like scraping their vocal cords.
I pressed my ear to the house. Nothing. Even peering carefully through the windows—dead silence.
Two houses in a row like that. The next one appeared: an American-style home with a yard. No fence, fully open, even a driveway. Probably a pool in the backyard too. Living like this wouldn't be half bad.
But no matter how I looked at it, this didn't scream enlisted barracks housing. A doctor working at the hospital? Or maybe an officer? I guessed it belonged to someone like that.
There'd be guns. But not many.
I rested my hand on my sword hilt and crept toward the window. Curtains drawn—couldn't see inside.
...Please no mom with a baby on her back. Mom I could handle, but a kid still gave me the creeps.
I let out a quiet sigh, crouched low, and slid slowly under the window.
Eeeeee—
Grrrrr—
Grrrrr—
There it was. But mixed with some weird noise?
I approached the front door. The porch light flickered on. Motion sensor, huh. Good thing I came during the day—would've been spotted at night.
I tried the handle. Locked. Figures.
Glanced around—no one. Gripped the handle tight and twisted.
Crack-crunch!
It shattered, swinging loose. Pulled it open a crack. No deadbolt or double-lock like in Korea. Confident in their security? Or...
"Kraaaah!"
The door flew open.
Auto-cast: Acceleration
A woman with one eye dangling out. Blonde, blue-eyed beauty. Apron on—must've been cooking.
I drew my sword and stabbed her forehead on instinct.
Splat!
"—Aaaargh!"
Crash!
Her body tumbled back through the door. I stared down at the white woman's corpse for a moment, took a deep breath, and stepped inside.
Squeeeee—
Something leaking. ...Burning smell.
I gripped my sword tighter and edged toward the noise, cautious.
Couldn't hear any growling over that squeal.
It was coming from the kitchen. I peeked in, checking both sides. A kettle screaming on the induction cooktop.
It was charred black—completely burned through. I turned off the still-flaming low heat and stared at it.
A month's worth of boiling, apparently. The plastic handle had melted into goo.
Lucky the house didn't catch fire. Damn, made me wanna cough. The soot-blackened kitchen reeked.
I cracked a window and turned away.
The first-floor rooms were empty. Bathroom too—pretty clean and cozy. Definitely upper-class digs.
I headed upstairs. Four rooms. I nudged the nearest one open from the stairs. It swung silently.
A little girl in kitty pajamas, face-down, feet toward me. No bloodstains.
Grrrrk, grrrrr—
I sighed softly, raised my sword, and approached quietly, no footsteps.
Aimed the tip at her head. Pushed.
Splat.
Pulled it out—blood spurted. The carpet under her soaked red.
Five years old, maybe. "...Tch."
...Fuck.
I leaned against the doorframe. Thousands killed so far, but kids still soured my mood. Gritted my teeth and opened the next door.
...Empty bathroom.
Then the next. Door scratched to hell—clawed, battered, chipped, blood-smeared.
Cracked it open: master bedroom. Big bed, wardrobe, dresser—nothing special. Except the body sprawled there.
In uniform. Latino GI. Definitely dead. Back of his head blown out rough, blood soaked black and crusted into the carpet.
Next to his bluish hand, a raised pistol.
When the end came, the kid turned. She bit her mom's face off. Dad came home, fled to the bedroom, couldn't bring himself to kill his family—locked in and ate the bullet.
I crouched and picked up the pistol. Heavy. Ejected the mag—full.
Hiss—faint smoke rose from it. Touching it with my worn-down Preservation Gloves restored it.
Wet wipes on the vanity. I cleaned the blood off with one, slammed the mag home.
Click.
...One pistol, for now. Only shot one in the army—never cared much for guns, so no clue what model this is.
Shoved it into the utility pocket of my Adidas backpack and crossed to the last room.
Opened it: storage? ...Wait, storage?
Weird. Boxes everywhere. Crib. Dresser. Walls covered in cute kid drawings.
...Ah. Planning for baby number two.
...Damn.
Wish I hadn't seen that. You can tell what kind of people lived here just from the house. Framed kid scribbles in the master and bathroom—happy family.
"...Whew."
Like in the master, I rummaged the soon-to-be nursery storage. Little dresser. Nothing much.
Dresser drawers. Toolbox left out on top.
Opened one: baby clothes, socks, shoes, neatly stacked.
...Diaper stockpile. No kid yet.
...Pregnant, maybe.
"...Tch."
I shook my head and eyed the stacked boxes. Probably junk.
Pulled one out, opened: old clothes.
Second box. Heavy. Taped all around. What the hell?
Drew one of my stretched arrows, sliced the tape. Inside: two wooden cases. Leather strap beside them?
...Huh. That strap...
I picked it up, set it aside, and hurriedly opened the wooden cases.
Click.
Two submachine guns inside. Not pistols?
...What the fuck? Too big for a pistol, too small for a rifle.
...SMGs. Holy shit?! Even for a GI, how do you keep these at home? Two of 'em? Plus the pistol—three guns in the house?
...Wait. Other houses I passed—got guns too?
I shoved the fleeting doubt aside and stared at the SMGs. Blocky as hell. Square drum mag, long pipe for a grip. Curved stock tail.
Folding stock, maybe? What is this thing?
Pulled out my phone, searched "submachine gun."
...Ingram MAC-10. American-made. The one Neo used in that Matrix elevator fight?
I pulled one out, examined it. Surprisingly light. Or maybe my Strength skill made it feel that way. Like holding a matchbox.
But... two SMGs firing 18 rounds per second.
"...Ha."
Weird as hell. How'd he even bring these into Korea? Soldier or not, personal import?
Officer uniform earlier—maybe officers can? Nah. And not from the armory—private stash.
I hefted the Ingram with both hands.
...This is GI class.
...I like it.
ROK forces like Supply Corps wouldn't have these easy. They use SMGs, sure, but something this tiny? No way in Korea.
I inspected it closer. Ditch the stock? Can it come off?
Grabbed tools from the toolbox, pried at the stock mount.
Then my phone buzzed.
Vrrr—
Special Forces Captain Seong Gyu-hyuk. Ugh, hassle.
"You okay? You've been in there a while."
"Yeah, fine. Just resting. Told you it'd take time. Long walk, swung the sword a bunch—tired. I'll head out after a break."
"Got it. Understood."
Hung up, twisted the stock off both Ingrams.
Without them... perfect. Way too perfect.
And that leather strap from earlier. Holster strap with a belt.
Short—not a waist belt. Thick leather loop in the middle.
...Knew what it was for the second I saw it.
I wrapped it around my thigh, buckled tight. Slid the Ingram into the loop.
...This is it.
Did the other thigh too. Both legs now armed with SMGs.
...Firepower upgraded.
"...Whew..."
Heart pounding.
The wooden case holding the Ingrams. Thick bottom—another layer.
Lifted the Ingram slot: white note.
Dear My Son.
A letter. ...To his son?
...From Dad? No clue what Dad does, but North Korea's up there or whatever—still, gun laws this strict in Korea, and he just ships over scary American SMGs? Thanks a ton.
I bowed mockingly and flicked the letter aside.
Bottom layer. Navy memory foam, six large-capacity Ingram mags slotted neatly. Banana mags, easy 30cm long—god knows how many rounds.
A father's endless worry for his son's safety...
I'll take good care of it for him.
I knelt, pocketed all six chunks of American dad love.
One more wooden box below. Smaller than the gun case.
Opened it: packed with smaller boxes. Labels with pics and text.
45ACP. Bullet icon.
...Ingram ammo.
Cracked one open...
Ammo... small rounds. Dozens of boxes crammed full...
Ahh...
This is "a father's burning love."
I felt the affection from this faceless dad deep in my soul, expressed profound gratitude with a bow, and shrugged off my Adidas bag.
U.S. military... hail.