Ugly Humans

It's hard to believe these guys are on their ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠way to kill ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠someone—their chat is so chummy. Maybe they're just putting on a tough front to mask their nerves about committing murder. It's a common type among guys from the military or rough jobs: acting strong to hide their weakness, desperate not to look soft.

Whatever. It makes things easier for me.

Five in number, all burly builds, lightly armed, heading out right now.

I was perched on a nearby rooftop, binoculars in hand, waiting. I'd camouflaged myself pretty well—impossible to spot from a distance. Crossbow at the ready in both hands.

Overkill for five civilians, maybe. But better safe than sorry.

Turns out this 'Gallery Admin' perk is pretty damn useful in practice.

Phones are dead now, radios too. The Maelmang Gallery is the only comms line left on Earth. Being able to see everything in it is like having the ultimate wiretap.

Lots of people are already swapping info via secret posts and chats. Some of it's too vile to read with your eyes open.

Would they be more careful if they knew someone was watching? Who knows.

Thanks to it, at least I could prepare like this.

In a world full of locks, they say the keyholder is king. I kept monitoring the Maelmang Gallery, waiting for them to show.

How much time passed? Not long.

There they are.

I spotted the men approaching my bunker. Five of them. Armed with steel pipes, hammers, wrenches. And those faces—I remembered them clear as day. No doubt: these were the ones gunning for me.

My grip tightened on the crossbow. But I held off shooting, letting them get closer.

"Hey, this the right spot? Looks like nothing here."

"You think they'd build a bunker smack in the city center? Trust me, just follow. You know I get 30% cut, right?"

"Tch, stingy bastard."

They shuffled along, chuckling, oblivious to death looming over them.

I memorized their faces just in case one slipped away. Then pulled the trigger.

Thwack!

The bolt flew the moment they were in range. Aimed at the leader up front—the construction guy. It punched straight through his skull.

Thud.

He crumpled without a scream. Now they'd never pinpoint my bunker. What he knew wasn't even accurate to begin with.

One.

"Huh?"

Civilians through and through. One down, and they froze in panic—no ducking, just standing there like idiots.

On a battlefield, that's begging to die.

I fired again, dropping another.

Two.

"W-what the fuck!"

Finally grasping it, one guy snatched up his steel pipe, whipping his head around for ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠me. Too late. My bolt was already airborne.

Three.

Two left. They were shaking in terror. One bolted, turning tail. I nailed his head mid-stride. His body hung in the air a beat, then he pitched forward a few steps before collapsing.

Four.

"P-please! Spare me! My daughter's at home, waiting for me...!"

Seeing that, the last one figured it was over. He dropped to his knees, begging.

Amusingly, the wrench guy was the final holdout. Though his tear-streaked, twisted face wasn't funny at all.

"......"

Middle-aged man pleading so pathetically it almost tugged at me. Maybe he really did have a kid at home.

But that wasn't my business.

Five.

The bolt pierced his forehead. He slumped like the rest, still.

"......"

Surprisingly easy to kill without a second thought. Was it because I'd prepped for the end all along? Or because they were murderers coming for me?

Doesn't matter. If you pick up a weapon to kill, be ready to die. They earned it.

Besides, with four already down, sparing the family man was too risky.

No reinforcements?

Matched the chat headcount, but no complacency. Sending scouts as bait is standard. I scanned around, waiting.

No one else showed. These five were it.

"Easier than expected."

Early days of the apocalypse, maybe. Amateurs in gear, experience, and nerves. Lucky break. Armed pros later on would've been a hassle.

I descended, retrieving my bolts.

"Hoo, now to deal with these."

Dead bodies weigh a ton—like hauling 130-pound rice sacks. Couldn't just leave them; obvious crime scene. Five corpses would draw zombies for sure.

Better to hustle now than regret later.

Some things never change—don't put off the annoying shit.

Dragged them to a distant abandoned building without much trail. Hard to link back to my bunker from here. Corpses aren't rare anymore anyway. Zombies would handle cleanup.

Making me work for nothing.

Pointless labor soured my mood a bit. Rifled their pockets—nothing useful. No emergency kits, despite the crisis. Just smokes and worthless bills.

From their clothes, they weren't well-off to start with.

Opened a wallet.

"...Hmm."

Sure enough, a photo with his daughter. The wrench guy. Her dad thing was real.

"Well, nothing to be done."

No guilt. Even the devil's spawn has a mom. Doesn't matter if he's someone's father—he came to kill first.

Whining about that would be shameless. Their crime's too heavy for mercy.

No need to judge good or evil anyway. They tried to kill me, so I killed them.

"If he'd kept a cleaner heart, maybe he'd have died with his ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠daughter."

Or maybe she was already gone. Just like before opening the wallet—a truth I'd never know. I left the photo safe from zombies.

World where even photos don't last, bodies get torn apart. Small mercy's fine.

The first day of doom passed like that.

A few days back home. On a whim, I checked the posts from the guys I killed.

Not many points, maybe? Or too busy surviving for gallery time. Slim post history.

Then I found what seemed like the wrench guy's message. A heartfelt reply from his daughter.

"Ahahahaha!"

Laughter burst out unbidden. His final "my daughter's waiting" still echoed in my head.

Couldn't remember the last time I'd laughed this hard. I shook my head, chuckling long after.

How could human ugliness stay so ugly to the bitter end?