Pirates
'Is the blue drug not spread here yet?'
Examining the faces of the approaching pirate horde one by one, their eyes looked utterly ordinary. No red glow meant they weren't mutants. It seemed this place hadn't erupted into chaos like the videos flooding the internet. Was that a blessing or a curse? If they'd all been addicts, he'd have mowed them down without a second thought—but this ambiguity left a sour taste.
"Should I just dive in and hack 'em all to pieces?"
"What?"
"Bullets are a waste."
"Hold still for a sec. Why are you acting like you're dying of bloodlust?"
Pushing back the growling Yuri, Cheol-woo observed the boats closing in on the yacht. Their gazes carried a peculiar hostility. He wouldn't shy from a fight if it came, but slipping past without one was preferable. Like his sister said, ammo was precious—and a bullet hole in the Myott would break his heart.
Cheol-woo pulled out the M240 and hoisted it high for clear visibility from afar. The boats scattered instantly, encircling the yacht. He and Yuri tensed, backs pressed together, while Mi-young in her gas mask let out a squeak and ducked into the cabin.
"What are those guys saying?"
"Who knows. Maybe they're merchants?"
No sooner had they readied for battle than the pirates (presumed) shifted demeanor. They started thrusting fruits, water bottles, and such from their boats, jabbering competitively.
Yuri fiddled with her blade—sching-sching—and sighed in frustration. If they'd been pirates, she could've looted them clean and siphoned their fuel without guilt. But law-abiding folk? Slaughtering them felt... off. Conscience was proving more troublesome than expected.
"Not buying. Scram."
"Cheol-woo, they don't look like they're backing off."
"Fine. I'll take the dinghy to the gas station and grab some."
He started shooing the boats away but gave up and retreated. Desperation clung to them—livelihoods on the line, no quitting in sight. The harbor's fuel dock was jammed anyway, no berth available. He'd need to motor the small boat over separately to buy gas.
"Don't buy anything while I'm gone. Flash the cash bundle and they might flip; who knows what they've tampered with in the food or goods."
"What, you think I'm a kid? I know that much!"
"Tch..."
"This little shit. Who're you treating like some naive brat?"
Shooting her a dubious glance, Cheol-woo cut his hesitation and launched the inflatable into the sea. Minimal armament to avoid aggro, he steered away from the yacht. Squeezing through the packed harbor, he finally tied off at a spot.
As he secured the rope, a prickling stare bored into his nape. Whipping around, the eyes vanished in unison. Outsiders weren't welcome here.
Better wrap this up quick and bounce.
No coast guard, navy, or even local cops in sight amid all these boats. Just a week since the skies turned weird, and law and order was already crumbling. No place to linger.
Avoiding eye contact with locals as much as possible, Cheol-woo beelined for the gas station.
"No fuel!"
Click—a double-barrel shotgun muzzle poked from the window, bellowed with the shout. Thud-thud—a hairy hand rapped the sign. Bold English below read 'NO FUEL!'
"Really none left?"
"Yeah! None!"
"Mind if I check inside myself?"
"...Get lost!"
A slight hesitation. Trembling voice. Dim interior hid his face, but the mental state was clear enough.
"Huh?"
The instant Cheol-woo's hand gripped the barrel, whoosh-click—in a blink, the gun swung around, now aimed inward from his grasp. Cock—as he thumbed the hammer, crashing sounds erupted inside.
"Eyes everywhere outside, so pardon the intrusion."
"..."
Crack-thud—Cheol-woo ripped the locked handle free and flung the door open. Eyes adjusting swiftly to the dark, he spotted the cowering man on the floor.
"No way a gas station's bone-dry. You've got some hoarded for the price spike, right? Am I wrong?"
"..."
"I'll buy at 1.5x Ciga prices. Diesel."
"Cash in dollars?"
"Yes."
"Half in gold or silver. Rumors say even America's shaky now."
"Deal."
Transaction sealed, the man led to the storage tank. Rumble—a 200L drum rolled out. Cheol-woo urgently stopped him from decanting into small cans. Better to roll the drum straight than shuttle dozens of cans.
"Here's the gold bars... Oh, you take Oriental Shipping promissory notes?"
"Would I?"
"Then dollars for the rest. Keep the change."
"..."
After doling out crisp $100 bills, what change? While the man blinked in confusion, Cheol-woo emptied the shotgun chambers and handed it back. With a grunt, he hefted the drum onto the wheelbarrow. The man's eyes bulged.
Two 200L drums. Myott's tanks held 1000L total—this would keep them at half-capacity till arrival. Assuming no incidents en route.
Something feels off.
Hauling the wheelbarrow back, stares intensified, stinging his skin. Tarp hid the load, but exiting the station with it screamed contents. Please, no trouble—no trouble—
Reaching the boats, he spotted a gang clustered around his. Ah, don't do this— Cheol-woo squeezed his eyes shut.
"Hey. Where'd that fuel come from?"
"What fuel."
"Don't play dumb. You're scared shitless. See your yacht over there?"
"..."
A thug slung an arm over Cheol-woo's shoulder, pointing. Merchants who'd haggled moments ago had turned feral, spears in hand, swarming the yacht. Cheol-woo's breath caught at the sight.
Ah—thought we'd skate by quietly for once— A headache throbbed.
"Fuel's useless now anyway. Hand it over nice."
"What fuel."
"Tch, thick-headed. This drum—"
The thug yanked the tarp—slash-thud—Cheol-woo's hand blurred from pocket to target and back. The thug slumped, face buried in the tarp, motionless. Pals dragged him out, only for him to flop limply, blood gushing from his ear.
"See? No fuel."
"You fuck—"
"Gaaah!"
Cheol-woo snapped the draped arm first, then drew his Maigen for rapid fire. Rat-tat-tat—thugs fumbling for waistband pistols crumpled, forehead holes blooming. Detecting distant prickles, he wrenched the arm further, hurling the thug as shotgun blasts rang.
Boom! Buckshot shredded the meat shield instead. Another boom!—Cheol-woo flung the pulped body atop the wheelbarrow. Spatter! Incoming shot peppered the corpse again, guarding the drums. Missed one round—oil leaked from a drum. He calmly taped it, glaring toward the gunfire. The reloader flinched, dropped his gun, and bolted into an alley.
No need to waste more ammo. Cheol-woo toed the thug corpses aside and wheeled on.
"All clear over there?"
Checking the yacht—just as expected. Bloodbath central. Limbs severed, necks parted, even boats cleaved... How do you slice a boat? A hollow laugh escaped Cheol-woo.
The blood-soaked NewTontonMan waved triumphantly, having diced the peddlers (disguised pirates).
"Cheol-woo! Got tons of fuel! Engines are small, but scraping 'em all might net twenty liters?"
"Uh, yeah. Good haul."
"Right? Right?"
Her gleeful cackle and bragging stirred unease in Cheol-woo. Tch—something's wrong— But seeing her bounce with joy over tampons from the loot melted it into a fond smile. Win-win all around—what's the issue?
"Quick, top off the tanks and let's sail."
"Yeah..."
Glancing around, prickling skin registered countless stares. They'd drawn way too much attention, good or ill. No brain-dead locals would charge after witnessing the pirate slaughter, but slaying natives guaranteed no friendly eyes.
This is why I hate making scenes.
One night ashore? Forget it. Cheol-woo clicked his tongue, fired the engines, and eased the yacht from the bloodied waters. Looked like sea bunks for the next week.