The Red Cross (1)

Reading material alone wasn't enough, so I'd asked for something else to occupy myself with.

"D-4, D-5, D-6…."

The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠codes Sara-ssi—no, Sara—had organized were packed with notes about items being stored or moved. I couldn't tell exactly what those items were, but there were traces of her trying to guess their meaning from the words themselves.

Glass transferred from D-4 to D-67.

Glass, though. Did that literally mean construction materials had been moved? Or was it some kind of coded slang?

Nothing in the contents seemed unimportant, but to make sense of any of it I still needed to figure out which location each code name corresponded to. In the end, it was work that would take time.

"…I've rested enough by now."

I closed the notebook and stood up from my seat, then headed straight for the room where the Newmans should have been and pushed the door open.

"So… ah."

Sure enough, the first person I ran into was Dietrich—

"I told you. Workaholic."

"Why is someone who ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠still needs rest back here already?"

"I've rested enough. Ran out of reading material, too."

I gave a small nod to the Newman couple, who were looking at me with puzzled faces. The wife had long brown hair; the husband's head was shaved clean.

"You're the one leading this survivor group… Lee Hyunwoo, correct?"

"Yes. Lisa Newman and… Matthew Newman, is that right?"

Once I saw them nod, I dragged over a chair and sat down in front of their cots. When they tried to force themselves upright, I raised a hand to stop them.

"Stay put until those wounds fully heal, at least."

"We're grateful for the kindness. We thought we were as good as dead back there, trapped with nowhere left to run."

"Do you already belong to another community?"

Both of them shook their heads, and I felt a wave of relief. That meant they were solidly my extra hands.

"Then where were you trying to go?"

"Honestly… we thought maybe it would be here. We'd been wandering, looking for a place to settle, when we ran into this strange pack of dogs that walked on two legs…."

"Dogfeet."

"They're called… Dogfeet? But their front paws—"

"Unusually long claws on a couple of them, right?"

A dog's head. Two dog hind legs. And a pair of front limbs with claws grown long and razor-sharp.

"What on earth is happening up on the surface…."

"Radiation, probably."

The wife, for her part, was unusually quiet. Whether that was just her nature or pure fear, I couldn't tell. Sensing my gaze, Lisa ducked behind her husband. Matthew shielded her with one arm and gently pulled her chin up.

"…Look. I don't imagine this kind of generosity comes without a price. But Lisa… she's seen what cannibals and hostile survivor groups do to people, and it's left her in a fragile state. If there's work to be done, please put it on me."

"I already told you I have no intention of putting injured people to work."

"I mean even after we recover…."

"Then what kind of work do you think you can do, Matthew?"

One glance was enough to tell he wasn't built for heavy labor. Muscle mass that would probably lose out even to Sara. Hollow cheeks from long stretches of hunger. Eyes that stayed fixed on the floor, as if he had no confidence at all.

Still, he finally lifted his head.

"Up top, I worked a white-collar job. Whether that… will be of any real help, I don't know."

His voice trailed off, drained of energy.

Not much use for survival, huh. Well—despite that, this man still had value.

"And your wife?"

"Lisa was a housewife. But right now, putting her to work would be… a little much."

"White-collar and a housewife—how the hell did you two even survive—"

"Sara."

Dietrich cut her off, but the couple had already shrunk into themselves long before that. Still, if you wanted to call it luck, this counted. Both of them were useful. If they hadn't been, I wouldn't have gone through the trouble of getting blood all over my face and hands for them.

"I'd like both of you working."

"…As I said—"

"Conditionally."

After a moment of quiet consideration, the man raised his head.

"Name your terms."

"Both of you simply handle the assigned tasks in the same space. The work is just cleaning, laundry, prepping cooking ingredients, dismantling and organizing given materials, and inventory management. About five things."

"…Hmm."

"I'll provide any tools that might help, and any working appliances we have."

Don't you dare turn out to be so useless you can't even manage that much. Don't you dare be the kind of deadweight whose mental state frays, who sinks into misery, and who starts slacking off because they can't handle even that—

"That's the least we should do. Understood. Though… I should warn you in advance, my wife's condition is unstable. I'd appreciate if you kept that in mind."

"As long as you can finish the daily assignments I give you, that's enough."

For now… they were at least in a state where I could put them to work. One less thing to worry about.

"Alright then, Dietrich—please look after the patients. And Sara… a word with me for a moment?"

"You said you had something important to talk about."

I followed Sara as she grumbled and adjusted her bag, tracking the bloodstains the two of them had left behind. The Dogfeet that had failed their hunt could pick up the scent of blood again at any time and come swarming—and the problem was… I hadn't gone anywhere near the settlement the whole time I'd been stuck in that damn room for over five days.

That left two possibilities. Either there was territory nearby belonging to something bigger or more dangerous than Dogfeet—or those Dogfeet had been eaten by it.

"In other words, it means I trust you enough to go around with you."

"As friends?"

"What happened to 'there's no such thing as friendship'?"

"…Huh?"

"Weren't you the one who said you'd be my friend?"

Her expression started to brighten, then sank again in an instant. Somewhere along the line I was making her feel good ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and then bad again.

"What am I even hoping for… Fine. Yeah. We're friends."

Sara kicked a chunk of concrete rubble on the floor with everything she had. The noise rang loud through the quiet corridor—

"Hm?"

In the direction it flew, white painted letters showed on the wall. I walked a little closer and shone a light on them—

"D-10?"

I pulled Sara's notebook from my pocket and ran a finger down the alphabet until I found it.

"Everything written in here—is it all accurate?"

"Yes. Aside from the parts blacked out like they'd been censored, I summarized every readable entry."

If this had been a game, the moment I acquired the info it would have shown up as a key location marked small on the minimap. Still—we'd found it this way, at least.

"Then shall we check it out? D-10."

"After you."

We kept walking in the direction the arrows pointed. Before long, a blast door appeared, sealing off a corridor wide enough for three people to walk abreast.

"Can you open it?"

"Even for me, this is…."

There was no keyhole. Forcing it open wasn't going to happen either. But there was a console mounted beside it.

"Power… yeah, of course it's not on."

I wiped the dust off the monitor with my hand and tapped at the keyboard, but nothing responded. We'd need to restore the power supply before we could open it.

"So these bunkers are completely useless, then?"

"Not necessarily."

I felt along the cables under the computer, then lifted my head and followed the line. They didn't lead into the storage interior—they ran outward.

"Shall we look for a generator?"

"You're planning to open it knowing the password?"

"There might not be a password at all. Or… we'll have to search for documents nearby. And if not that…."

I pulled the notebook out again and ran my finger down from D-0. Most entries were simple one- or two-sentence summaries, but a few of them…

"These words—did you write them yourself?"

"I copied them as they were. The ones written entirely in capitals kept catching my eye… Ah. Wait."

"I'm thinking they might be passwords."

I turned my head along the cables. The black wires ran deeper into the dark. When I swung the flashlight with them, the far end of the corridor was covered in black stains.

"Tch."

"…Dried blood, right?"

Palm prints. Footprints. Nail marks. There was far too much of it to belong to the Newmans.

"There weren't any drag marks leading this way on the path we took, were there?"

She was right. Which meant, put another way—

"Something may have come out this far with blood on it."

Places where you could get high-value items always came with danger. And our supplies were running lower by the day.

"Guns up. Don't let your guard down."

"We should go back and get the others—"

"Two people to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠watch the wounded, one to tend them. It's on us."

I raised my gun. And set my foot down on the dried blood.