You Need to Finish the Tutorial to Craft? (3)
Rebirth Church.
For a New Skin character running an evil meta, they weren't much of a problem—hell, you could almost call them allies.
A bunch of fanatics who claimed the evil-soaked old era had been purified by the "heavenly punishment" that fell from the sky, and that the New Skins created anew from the destruction were the god-chosen next generation.
They offered people as sacrifices. Treated them like livestock. Didn't even flinch at eating them.
"You're telling me we got mixed up with those people!?"
"We're just that unlucky. And if that man said 'sacrifice'..."
I hoped I was just overreacting.
Especially with the skin of the "old generation"—which made me little better than a slave. Figuring I might as well build some stamina, I grabbed the heaviest-looking load and tried to heave it up—
"Careful."
The hand that caught me as I staggered belonged to Mr. Curtis. The easygoing look was gone; now his eyes swept the surroundings while his ears twitched, listening.
"There's a lot of important stuff in that bag. Leave it to James."
"Hand it over. It's mostly family things..."
"You take Sarah's pack."
I wanted nothing more than to dump the bag that was nearly as tall as a person, but family belongings... no choice. I wasn't about to start by dealing irreversible damage to their favorability.
"Just a second..."
A wallet, in this apocalypse. Probably closer to a little photo album full of pictures worth remembering.
"It's fine. Want to try lifting it?"
...I can manage—
"Easy, easy. Come on, you're a man—can't even handle this? It should be about twenty kilos."
"Urgh...!"
Damn it. If I weren't a Crafter, my strength wouldn't be this pathetic. My legs were shaking hard. That goddamn nerf.
"It's fine. Yeah. I can move with it."
"Think you can keep up without falling behind?"
"Of course...!"
Nothing built strength and endurance like moving loaded down with gear. There used to be a method of just mashing the direction keys in a tiny 1x1 room, but well—that got patched as a bug.
"Good. Sarah, take point. Always careful."
"Keep low. Yes, yes, I've heard it a thousand times."
Without even switching on a flashlight, Ms. Sarah vanished into the dark first. The other two showed no sign of turning theirs on either.
"How's your night vision? Got any?"
"No. Probably not."
A trait that was hard to get unless you were born with it. You'd need years of night activity, long-term good nutrition, or supplements. Otherwise it was nearly impossible.
"Then stick tight behind James. Tsk. Not much strength, no night vision. Somehow the monkey we picked up is kind of..."
"He does seem to know a lot, though."
"Yellow people are usually like that. Sharp. You know, that Wang guy who used to run the laundry? Where did his boy go to college—California?"
"Stanford. All right, enough chatter."
I forced my feet to move, following the two as they started forward at a careful pace. Meanwhile I turned things over slowly in my head.
First, I had to hope my fears were baseless. If we found a spot for a new hideout, I'd ask Ms. Sarah or Mr. James for cover... and on the path we'd taken, I needed to find and erase any Rebirth Church tracker marks that might be there. They weren't hard to spot, so removing them shouldn't be either... but an ambush would be another problem entirely.
Leave the marks and we'd get hit for sure—hurt or dead. If we had a doctor and medical supplies I could risk luring them, but the stress of that approach was its own issue. Once the crafting kit unlocked I'd have endless traps I could sell... but that damn tutorial.
This was getting messy—
"Ugh!?"
"Shh."
A huge, furry hand steadied me as I lurched forward. Why had we stopped? Fingers tapped my ear; I blinked hard. Damn it—with zero light I couldn't see a thing...
"...Grrr."
Ah. That familiar sound. Spit, phlegm, blood, stomach acid—whatever else—boiling in a zombie's throat. And footsteps... this direction?
—Swish, swish.
After a few brushing motions of a hand, Mr. James set my direction by shoving my back. How long I walked that way, with no real sense of orientation, I couldn't say.
"Sarah."
"I'm here."
"...Good. We should be safe here."
Light flared; the surroundings became so bright I could barely open my eyes. Wherever he'd gotten it, Mr. James hung an oil lamp on an iron frame and checked the area.
"Perimeter's clear. Nothing following, and no real sounds."
"Getting used to the headset?"
"Yeah, more or less. Better than nothing."
I set the heavy load down and worked the knotted muscles a few times. The second I slept I'd get a vicious muscle-pain debuff. If I was going to do anything, it had to be now.
"I'm sorry, but could one of you cover me?"
"Something wrong?"
"...I'm hoping there isn't."
"I'll go."
Mr. Curtis broke open his shotgun, checked the shells, and stood. Mr. James took the bag, stashed the gear in a corner, and checked the chamber of his rifle.
"Watch Sarah and the bags, kid. Shouldn't be that dangerous anyway."
Ms. Sarah pumped her shotgun, loaded one into the chamber and five into the tube, then tossed it to me.
"Better than nothing."
"You trust me?"
"Ever since we ran into that bastard we've been hitting way too many zombies. It's been making me uneasy. Just earlier a pack was wandering right across the route we were trying to take out."
Funneling zombie packs into the bunker was the work of New Skins who could still go outside—especially the schemes of Rebirth Church members. The ones coming in from outside were at least half-blind and missing limbs, so they weren't that dangerous on their own. The real threat was the way they herded them at your back.
"What are you looking for?"
"Marks. Totems made of twigs or the bones of small animals like rats."
"What a pain. Cultists, always."
"What should we do, then?"
"Leave the door open. If the noise suddenly dies or something loud starts up, go on alert. And don't trust anyone with red skin."
"Red... skin?"
"You won't need an explanation. You'll know the second you see one."
At least military service meant I knew how to shoot. Surely following the Crafter stats wouldn't trash my marksmanship entirely...
"Have you used a gun before?"
"Korea has conscription. As long as your body and mind are basically healthy, everyone gets a year and a half of training."
Thankfully my body still moved the way I wanted. The sights lined up cleanly—
Wait.
That shadow in the lamplight.
No way.
"Whoa, whoa—muzzle down. Nobody needs to get hurt—"
I slammed my body into Mr. James as he reached toward me and swung the barrel straight onto Ms. Sarah. Her face went wide with shock, but before Mr. Curtis's double-barrel could come around I shouted.
"Get down!"
Sure enough.
Eight black legs. Six dark-crimson eyes.
A Giant Spider.
—Bang.
"Kiiiiii!"
Bullets that failed to pierce the thick carapace punched in and sprayed green blood.
"Sarah, this way!"
Fire flashed from Mr. James's rifle. The ear-splitting crack of a shotgun roared from my left.
"Kiiik, kiiiiik!"
"Fall back!"
Three or four in sight, at least. Bullets wouldn't cut it. Those blackened carapaces stopped even rifle rounds.
"Don't you have higher-penetration ammo?! Slugs, armor-piercing—anything!?"
"How the hell do you kill bugs that rifle rounds bounce off of?! Sarah, move!"
"Th-that... ugh...!"
Damn it—she was limping. I swung the light over and saw two round wounds already turning blue-purple. Bit when she ducked earlier?
"Sarah!"
Before we cleared the room I scanned hard. An empty bunker interior like this meant they'd been prepping for construction—right. At least one hollow steel rod.
"What are you standing around for—James, ditch the bag and carry Sarah!"
"Hyunwoo, cover—what are you doing right now...?"
"Just keep them off me!"
I dropped the gun, jammed the rod under that disgusting face. Their weakness was the sluggishness the heavy shell forced on them. Get too close and they burned a lot of energy to leap—
"Kiiik!?"
I used my thigh as a fulcrum and flipped the thing. Underneath, the soft, pliable carapace meant for venting the heat of that oversized body lay exposed.
"Shoot!"
Before Mr. James, still supporting his daughter, could even get the rifle up one-handed, fire erupted from Mr. Curtis's long barrel. Blood burst with a wet pop and sprayed everywhere; spiders that caught some in their eyes flinched and hesitated. Assists counted as kills, and I meant to clear them all while I had the chance. Get hit by the paralysis toxin and you were looking at two days of nursing—or five if it was bad.
"You flip, I shoot. James!"
"Breathe, Sarah—breathe!"
It wasn't a lethal toxin. The key was keeping respiratory distress from setting in.
"Sarah!"
I tripped another set of legs; more green fluid painted the wall and rod. After three or so went down they started curling their abdomens and bolting—
"Where do you think you're going...!"
Maybe my strength had already ticked up a notch. I managed to flip the one trying to run.
"Die!"
Hard as the upper shell was, the underside tore under a hard thrust of the blunt steel rod. I ripped it open, stabbed the last one, and watched the rest flee.
...The fact that there had been that many meant pushing farther would have taken us straight into their nest.
"Is it done?"
"For now, yes."
This family had clearly been marked as prey. Or they were just spectacularly unlucky. Like me right now.
"Sarah—hang on, Sarah!"
"Easy. Let me check her."
She hadn't blacked out. She was still trying to open her mouth and breathe. Light in the eyes got a reaction—slow, but there.
"Hah... hah... ugh..."
"Sarah, try to breathe slow. It's not a deadly toxin—not unless there's a severe allergic reaction. Those things like to suck their prey while it's still alive."
"Why didn't we hear them coming?"
"Tips of the legs are soft. When they lock onto prey they muffle the sound, too. And they're slow."
"Goddamn it..."
There were drugs that worked as antidotes. You usually found them in medical rooms while clearing bunkers, or in the supply boxes along the corridors. The problem was Ms. Sarah's condition already looked bad. The bite was swelling, and her clear face had flushed an ugly red.
"Her breathing's getting weaker—damn it, I'll go look for medicine—"
"...Epinephrine. Epinephrine, yes. Dad—the first-aid kit!"
"I was already getting it!"
A thick photo album, dishes, cans, sleeping bags tumbled out in sequence; from the bottom he tossed me a square bag. I snapped the buckle, yanked the zipper, and saw a syringe with an orange tip.
That was a stimulant.
"Here."
The orange tip went into Ms. Sarah's thigh. Her trembling body slowly settled. The swelling in her face eased; the ragged breathing evened out a little.
"...Damn it. Fuck."
"James—Sarah?"
"She's okay. Thank God."
...Better for now, but after the paralysis came the crash. They'd used a stimulant to break the symptoms, but without a real antidote it would come roaring back. Given everything, the Church bastards were definitely on our trail. If we couldn't run any farther—
"I have some things to ask of you two."
Finishing the tutorial while traveling with them was no longer an option. That meant I would have to hunt the Hammerhead with the iron plate on its head myself.
Before the New Skins came looking to flay our skins.