Hellscape (18)
"Fire! Fire! Shoot, damn it!"
"Shit! The sunlight...!"
Tatata-tang!
Gunfire erupted toward the Flying NewTontonMan, but Yuri climbed higher to evade. The protective suit was bulletproof, but the jetpack wasn't, so she had to be careful. Soaring high with the sun at her back, she descended in a blaze of blinding backlight. Not a single bullet struck home as the NewTontonMan slammed thud! onto the ground.
"Ah."
A moment of silence hung in the air. Then, as the NewTontonMan rose from one knee, fist-sized objects scattered in every direction with a rustle.
Too late, the men realized what they were amid the glare.
"Grenades! Get down—"
Kwaaang!
The explosions rocked heaven and earth.
...
These aren't ordinary mercenaries. Not small-scale like the American bastards, either.
The whites entrenched on Hong Kong Island were threatening enough, but at best, they operated in platoon sizes. Their firepower had limits, and they suffered just like everyone else, hampered by the mutants swarming everywhere.
But the ones across the water? Different story.
Though still within Hong Kong territory, unlike the infested island, the Kowloon Peninsula was a clean zone free of mutants. Those bastards over there watched the chaos from afar like it was a sideshow, commanding massive forces at their leisure. Crossing the sea without so much as a speedboat or rubber dinghy to hit a company-sized enemy? Like throwing eggs at a rock. Suicide.
...If not for the NewTontonMan.
Flying NewTontonMan, you fucks.
Through his sniper scope, Cheol-woo saw the far shore was already a mess. The NewTontonMan had landed successfully, hurling grenades and smoke grenades everywhere before carving through the nearest enemies one by one. Watching from afar, the sword-wielding, bullet-deflecting, waddling figure might look comical. But up close? Different story. Clumsy as she seemed, her movements were sharp, her bursts of acceleration rivaling a motorcycle. No human could outrun the NewTontonMan on foot.
Machine gun spotted.
Spotting the heavy machine gun barrel poking from the tent, Cheol-woo held his breath. The NewTontonMan could block most rounds, but she wasn't invincible. Even with layered ballistic plates on the suit, a heavy MG would punch right through.
He disengaged the safety, racked the bolt with a clack-clack, chambering a round. Aiming for where the gunner's head would likely be behind the canvas, he squeezed the trigger.
Bang!
The cannon-like roar propelled the round across the sea, shredding the tent in a spray of blood.
Anti-materiel sniper rifles really do have a flat trajectory.
It was an M82—Barrett for short—one of the few at GeumMyeong Security. Until now, 7.62mm platforms covered most ranges, but sniping across the strait demanded more. Time for .50 cal power. He'd questioned bringing it from Korea, but here it was proving its worth.
Confirming the NewTontonMan's thumbs-up through the scope, Cheol-woo swung to the next MG nest. Shoot the gunner the moment he grabs it. Wait for the next idiot to drag the body and take position. Repeat. Smashing the guns worked too, but this was more efficient. With the infantry auto-farmed by the NewTontonMan, his job was just picking off MG crews.
"Ah. What the hell is that?"
Spotting the speedboat slicing through the waves, Cheol-woo's face hardened. A rotating turret swiveled toward the shore, its 20mm Vulcan cannon locking on the NewTontonMan.
Switching to AP rounds, he reloaded. Distance was extreme, target fast-moving and bobbing on waves—but no matter. Low odds per shot? Empty the mag.
Stock tight to shoulder, he ripped off ten quick rounds.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Recoil hammered his shoulder like it might shatter as AP slugs hammered the Vulcan turret. Armor glass shattered, the gunner erupted in gore, painting the turret red. Lucky or not, only the gunner died—the Vulcan intact. Fine, call it lucky. They could claim it.
Reloading, he hosed the bridge with another twenty rounds. In seconds, the windows were opaque with blood.
The speedboat slowed to a crawl.
Slipping on his jetpack, Cheol-woo launched. Skimming the waves to match speed, he landed aft. The open sky had chilled him en route; now, enclosed in the hull, calm washed over him. This is where I belong. Where I won't die.
"Huh? Who the—"
A fool rushing from the bridge with a dumb look got a dagger between the eyes—shunk. Yanking it free, Cheol-woo chucked the body overboard.
He slit throats silently in the corridors, then stormed the bridge.
"Mayday! Speedboat sniped! Captain and Vulcan gunner KIA! Five more critical! Survivors... Fuck! Radio's dead! You bastard, why now...?"
"..."
The door creaked open. Cheol-woo faced a blond, blue-eyed man wrestling the radio amid the bloodbath.
The man scanned him, bolted for a wall rifle—but slipped on gore, sprained his ankle, and shrieked like a girl.
"Aaaagh! Mercy! We're just hired by the Royal Navy—"
"I get tongue-tied with English."
As the babble started, Cheol-woo's pistol barked—bang!—silencing him. Didn't care. Didn't need to know. They were all black ops in Hong Kong; affiliations didn't matter. Ignorance was bliss sometimes.
Mercy-killing the limbless wrecks rolling in agony, he headed topside.
[Cheol-woo! Cheol-woo? Scary shit's swarming!]
Static crackled. Across the water, the pier was devastated, sea stained red with NewTontonMan-sliced corpses. But the tide had turned. Armored vehicles rumbled in from somewhere.
No sword cuts tanks—or could it? Yuri might, but no guinea pigging her life.
"Noona. Dive now."
[Got it!]
No hesitation—the NewTontonMan waddled straight into the sea.
Confirming via binoculars, Cheol-woo flung open the Vulcan turret, grimaced at the corpse-rags. Dragging them out, he mounted up. New weapon, new buttons—but his body moved on instinct.
Click.Vreeee— The Vulcan spun savagely.
Complex controls linked to radar/comms he ignored. Manual aim on the incoming armor column.
Dr-r-ruck! Deafening roar, smoke billowing as 20mm rounds spat out. Tracer arcs guided corrections—boom! Shells slammed home.
Infantry leaped in panic; by the time dust cleared, vehicles were scrap, crews reduced to unrecognizable meatloaf.
Belts empty, the column was a flaming junkyard. A few troops fled.
Confirmed, Cheol-woo wired C4 to engines and ammo. Jetpacking up, he detonated—boom! The boat split, sinking slowly.
What a waste.
Small, but roomy for ten. Well-armed, fast. Perfect—but he couldn't drive it. Even if he could, breakdowns? Dead in days adrift.
"Noona, surface now."
"Urgh... fuck!"
Spotting the flailing NewTontonMan, he landed. Waterlogged and bulkier, she grabbed his hand and climbed out. Immensely heavy. Yuri's strength kept her afloat; anyone else would've drowned instantly.
"Where's Mi-young?"
"Huh?"
Yuri, gulping air sans helmet, froze. Right—the kidnapped woman. Forgotten amid the firefight before pinpointing her.
Yuri scanned frantically. Decapitated torsos, sniper-headshots, chest-holed corpses—dozens. Burning wrecks littered with meat-patties—more dozens. Was Kim Mi-young among them? Her heart sank.
"No way she's already—"
Gasping, Yuri spotted a lone twitching carry-on amid the pile.
Eh? There!
Flinging it open—
"Eek! Hic! Spare me! I can't shoot, can't fight, zero stamina, worthless...!"
"Yup, it's her."
Curled fetal in the suitcase, Kim Mi-young Team Leader sobbed hysterically. Why's she love suitcases so much? Nesting instinct? Her subconscious thinks 'home = carry-on' now.