Hell Scroll (7)
"Underground! Let's head underground—now!"
"Huh? There is a basement in this building, but..."
"B1 won't cut it! We're moving to the nearest subway station!"
At Min Cheol-woo's command, the building erupted into chaos in an instant. Yuri and Han Sa-jang were both caught off guard by the sudden order, but they didn't argue. If Cheol-woo was saying this, it meant every second counted. They could always ask what the hell was going on after following his lead.
Less than a minute later, the three of them had packed up and descended to the underground parking garage, each mounting a quad bike. The engines hummed softly as they slipped out of the garage.
About a minute left? Cheol-woo kept glancing at the sky, breathing hard.
"Mutant pack ahead."
His breath caught. The mutants clustered at the parking entrance had scattered—that was good—but now they were mobbed at the subway exit. How to deal with them? His hand twitched toward the machine gun, but even turning them into Swiss cheese wouldn't solve the problem. If the exit got clogged with corpses, they'd be fucked. Time left: barely thirty seconds. No time, no path. The answer was luring them away.
"Sis! Take Sa-jang and head deep underground!"
"Huh? Oh!"
Cheol-woo yanked the handlebars hard, firing his pistol—bang-bang-bang-bang! The deafening shots drew a flood of crimson eyes toward him. Familiar sight, but still fucking creepy—like zombies lurching into a sprint. Their speed was monstrous, but with sharp turns and drifts, he kept the distance.
Still a bit short.
Yuri hesitated. The mutants veered aside with guttural growls, clearing some space at the exit—but not enough for a quad bike. Slow down and wait? No, that'd leave Cheol-woo hanging longer. Fuck it. She gunned the throttle, drew her gray sword, and held it horizontal like a fixed blade.
Scraaaaaape!
Her quad bike sliced through the mutant horde, cleaving bone and flesh for over ten meters. The resistance was like cutting thick paper—her wrist barely felt it. Speed didn't drop an inch.
These siblings are insane...
Han Sa-jang, trailing behind, gaped as over a dozen mutants crumpled into twitching wrecks. She'd known Yuri was no slouch, but this? Gear helped, speed assisted, but maintaining a flawless blade edge through that slaughter was prodigy-level shit. Wish I could snag one like her. She swallowed hard.
Both inside.
The two bikes slipped through the gap Yuri carved. She muscled up the iron grate blocking the subway entrance, shoved her bike down the stairs. Crashes and screams echoed—thud-thud-thud! and whaaa!—but whatever. Yuri's hazmat suit would protect her from serious injury. If it was Han Sa-jang rolling? Eh... unfortunate.
Cheol-woo whipped into another drift, circling wide. He pulled the pin on a smoke grenade—tick—and lobbed it back. It vanished into the pursuing horde's midst. Moments later—WHOOMPH! Flames erupted from within, white smoke billowing as yellow embers sprayed like blooming fireworks.
He checked—no fire on his bike. Close call; would've had to ditch the whole thing.
"Grk? Grraaah?!"
"Raaargh!"
The mutants choked in the blinding smoke, reeking of burning meat. Cheol-woo seized the gap, rocketing his bike down the exit and sliding under the lowering grate.
For safety, they needed at least B3. Thump-thump-thump! Tires pounded stairs amid rumbling echoes until he drift-stopped in the station.
"Ah! Finally! Fuck, what took so long?"
"Thirty seconds late, big deal. Keep your heads down—Sa-jang too."
"What the hell's going on?"
"Hope I misheard, but I caught plane engines from the north... and something dropping."
Han Sa-jang paled. If Cheol-woo heard it, no mistake. North meant mainland China. And dropping sounds? Some aviation bombs had whistles for psychological terror.
"Airstrike...!"
BOOM! The world shook, lights snapped off—darkness fell.
"Fuck my life. Executive, and this is my gig?"
Park I-sa gnashed his teeth, tapping his tablet furiously. Intel showed Hong Kong Airport seized by American mercenaries packing the new M277 Fury rifles. No direct US military ties, though. No hard evidence meant shrugging it off in this biz—like some idol group's gimmick. Everyone knew it was bullshit; questioning it lost you the game.
Even mobilizing every overseas contact, the company's chain vanished into thin air. Definitely US defense contractor adjacent, but this hidden? Narrowed it to Langley or SOCOM.
Fuck, why them? Might have to wipe 'em clean.
Both notorious for brutality. Front-facing as respectable intel arms of a superpower, backroom crime lords. Hong Kong? Perfect playground—no leaks, ever. Landing there meant anything goes.
"Orders, Director?"
"Land."
"Roger. Descending, attempting comms with airport."
Backing off now? Nah. He clenched his jaw, slumping in his seat. Fuck it—die or not. Empty-handed return meant demotion and death anyway. Oriental's prez surrendered, so they accepted—now suspicion of cozying with the Chinese. Lost trust? Only big wins fixed that. No empty hands back to Korea, even if it killed him.
"Huh?"
"Don't spook me. No more 'huh'."
"Weird. Front radar—bird? Too big... eagle-sized, anyway."
"The fuck? Still stratosphere height?"
"Yes. Closing fa—gah?!"
SCREEEEE! Something streaked past, rocking the fuselage violently. Rumble-rumble! The pilot wrestled the controls; shaking eased.
What the hell was that? Eyes met in silence—all thinking the same.
"That was... a fighter jet, right?"
"Looks like."
No US jets over Hong Kong; had to be PLA. Stealth hid them from it, but it should've spotted them clear. Grazing pass? No accident—intentional. Warning shot: Back off nicely.
"Why threat flyby over radio?"
"Radio silence, probably. They're running ops."
Ops? Then the answer detonated over Hong Kong Island. Boom—BOOM—RUMBLE! Crimson fire flowers bloomed in the dark. One spot carpet-bombed, engulfed in flames.
Fuck. Park I-sa sighed. That was the airport.
"Director, abort? Next time it's missiles."
"...Parachutes enough?"
"No way."
"Don't bullshit me."
Groans erupted, but his steely glare shut them down. Jump if he says jump.
"Haa..."
Han Sa-jang, surfacing, shivered as goosebumps prickled. A sturdy building stood there moments ago—now collapsed, skeleton gone. Burn marks suggested a blast radius swallowing a full block, vaporizing down to B3.
Ten seconds later, and they'd have evaporated. Her lips trembled as she glanced back; Cheol-woo looked unfazed. Animal instinct—evac before disaster.
"Scout from high ground."
Binocs in hand, Cheol-woo climbed a building, scanning. Dark, but bombing fires lit it well. Or his night vision sharpened? Two strike zones: their building, old airport. Airport pulverized—runway, facilities, all irreparable inferno.
"Strikes only on airport and our building."
"What? Not random—targeted? Airport's strategic, but why this one..."
"..."
"Ah."
Cheol-woo's flat gaze hardened her expression. Yesterday's escapees: Chinese from mainland north. Comms cut by Beijing, so their intel fed PLA coords. They knew she was inside—and bombed anyway.
Targeted her.
...Why?
"Chinese were friendly, no?"
"Were. As far as I knew. Situation changed fast on mainland."
"Oriental fucked the Party?"
"Probably. Not sure—can't contact outside."
She couldn't hide her unease. Revival hinged on snagging Hong Kong data, handing to HQ for her throne back. If HQ collapsed? Unthought-of. Oriental-Party ties ironclad; no contingency.
No way. No.
Empires crumbled fast. US antitrust wrecked giants; China executed countless under one-party rule. Why not predict it for them? No—nothing confirmed. Exit Hong Kong first.
She forced deep breaths, calming. But if true? Recipe escape useless—I'm dead.
Post-escape, HQ gone? Survival mode. Her assets: one pudgy defector. No cash, muscle, backing—but knowledgeable? Dead in days.
Nail-biting frenzy—Cheol-woo spoke.
"Worst case, leak the recipe."
"...Pardon?"
"Nations, pharma companies dying for it. China'll peddle post-conquest—beat 'em to it. Cash buys protection."
"..."
Leak that? The drug that birthed this hell? Facing his unflinching eyes, Han Sa-jang fell silent.
Is he like me?