Chapter 144
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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 144
Chapter Title: #Peep show grey (1)
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“Hey.”
The Marine sergeant scowled at the seagull.
“Get lost, you bird-brained whore. Before I blow you away.”
The bird with the red beak showed no fear. Far from fleeing, it squawked right at the human. Quite-acck! Flutter-flutter! It was a threatening display. Its wingspan was nearly a meter as it flapped aggressively. The sergeant stared in disbelief. Then he drew his pistol. Bang! Blood sprayed. It was too close to miss.
The sky grew chaotic. Startled by the gunshot, the flock of seagulls scattered in a frenzy. A single feather rode the wind, drifting past Winter’s eyes before beginning its descent toward the ashen seaside city.
A gravelly voice crackled from the radio.
[Post 1. What’s going on?]
The sergeant glanced at Winter before replying.
“Nothing. Just shot a seagull.”
[Damn it, don’t make us tense up for nothing.]
“Sorry.”
While they exchanged words, the scattered flock swooped back in. Toward their dead kin. The CIA operations HQ—the upper mast of the anchored freighter—was overrun by countless seagulls.
It wasn’t a vigil of mourning. It was a feeding frenzy. Red beaks tore into the fallen seagull. Their savage, competitive jostling shredded flesh and guts. The screeching was ear-piercing. Selfish wingbeats shoved rivals aside. The radar-nearby mast was narrow. Dozens perched atop it, hundreds circling, endlessly vying for space. They snapped their red beaks wide, threatening one another.
Human civilization hadn’t just fed humans. The winged residents of the greater San Francisco area had suffered unprecedented hunger with the plague’s spread. Hunger bred madness. The maddened birds had learned human madness. They started with scraps, but soon took part in the frenzy. The problem was that human remains were among the scraps humans left behind.
“I wanna shoot ’em all.”
The sergeant grumbled, setting the radio down. Knowing he wouldn’t, Winter still issued a token rebuke.
“Ease up, Wolf. The next shift’ll have a mess on their hands.”
More bodies would draw more scavengers. It’d quiet down for now, at least.
Winter was on watch with the Marine sergeant. From this improvised post high on the mast, visibility was good enough on clear days to see half the south side of San Francisco Bay.
‘Gonna be a bit longer before the real mission drops, huh...’
Ten days had passed in “Day after Apocalypse” time since arriving here. Three days after the week-long adaptation trial ended. But no external ops yet.
The main reason was White Skull itself—the unit Winter had joined. They’d taken heavy losses on the last mission, apparently. For now, they’d stick to guard and patrol duty.
Things had felt off from day one. Captain Fowler had observed all day. A special forces commander on a covert op doesn’t get that leisurely. Proof they desperately needed reinforcements.
All the better, really. Patrols or fixed posts were chances to bond with the regulars. Higher-ups had paired them intentionally for that. New stage, new faces. Winter took them in one by one. The Dwayne Wolf standing beside him now was one such.
“Look. Guerrillas again, public execution. Third one today.”
The sergeant pointed south. Winter raised binoculars. Flock first—low-flying, sensing a feast. Below, the blood-soaked deck gleamed red. Victims soon to be, too. Torture marks plain. Hands bound behind backs. Armed blacks forced them to kneel. Spittle flew from the doomed men’s mouths. No sound carried. Lips too hard to read.
No mercy of blindfolds. No guns. Just sliced bellies with knives. No solemnity, no pathos, no frenzy. Routine slaughter. Victims shuddered alive. Dark-skinned executioners plunged hands in, scraping out entrails. Gushing forth. Seagulls poured down.
That was why Winter hadn’t stopped the sergeant from shooting one.
“You think their claims hold water?”
Winter’s question. The sergeant snorted.
“Dunno. Don’t care to. True or not, it doesn’t justify that insane shit. Criminal scum worse than Taliban. Should all be wiped out.”
Contempt dripped from every word.
Black Guerrillas. That’s what the armed blacks called themselves.
Winter had heard their manifestos blasted on pirate frequencies.
The justification for executions: revenge. Racial discrimination during the San Francisco evac. Disaster authorities prioritized rich whites, leaving poor blacks behind.
Thus, victims were mostly whites. Not always strictly, though. Other races ended up dead too. One of today’s was black.
Gurgle. Gut-twisting rumble. Winter turned. Sergeant Wolf clutched his belly, face flushing with embarrassment under the gaze.
“Sorry. Blood pressure spiked or something—sudden signal. Never had this before.”
“Go ahead. Not like anything’ll happen in a minute.”
“Uh... might take longer than that.”
“No helping it. Chance like this doesn’t come often, right?”
Even more embarrassed before Winter’s smile, but the sergeant didn’t refuse. “Be right back,” he said, sliding down the ladder at breakneck speed. Dangerously fast.
He had constipation. Never said so himself, but the guys teased mercilessly. “Wolf, how long you gonna keep starving yourself?” Even in front of Winter, multiple times. Sergeant got mad every time.
‘Said his first apple was after enlisting, right?’
Nothing new there. Classic poor American.
Second shift together, but the embarrassed sergeant defended himself eagerly, so Winter heard plenty about his childhood.
“No grocery stores where I grew up. Only McDonald’s for food.”
Food desert. In a car-dependent country, distance was violence between the poor and fresh produce.
Poor parents often neglected kids too. Kids raised in neglect and poverty ended up empty in all sorts of ways. Winter’s own past empathized with the sergeant’s boyhood.
“Enlisted ’cause I hated being hungry. Was my seventeenth birthday. The woman who birthed me said if I wasn’t going to school, join the military. Said okay. Figured might as well go Marine. Looked cool. Crazy choice. Best decision of my life now, though.”
Common story. Legal child soldiers. America’s shame. Countless battlefields claimed fresh-faced heroes. Basis for Winter earning respect.
The white sergeant struggling with veggies embodied that reconstructed past darkness.
Winter powered on the portable radio.
“Good deeds are fine, but you can’t force them.”
The voice, familiar after days, flowed out. One of the Republican primary candidates. Listening to his tirade, Winter glanced back at the execution ground. Dead men buried under flapping wings. Gruesome sky burial. Black Guerrilla turf spanned some two hundred big and small ships. Executions at the highest bows. Fear was rule.
“I know folks cry for the refugees’ plight. But ask them: how much specifically will you give to help? That amount’s the price of their conscience. I’ve talked to plenty who oppose me. Turns out they’re cheapskates. Just like me.”
Cheers and laughter erupted from the speaker.
Winter’s eyes tracked a lone seagull. For some reason, separated from the flock, flying solo. Its gliding evoked Jonathan Livingston. Seagull’s dream. Faded childhood book that moved him deeply. Relentless effort transcending limits—a beautiful dream. A boy’s hope.
Faded tale now.
This one’s beak was red.
Radio still blared the red voice’s rhetoric.
“Straight up, I’m cheap and tacky. But tacky folks can do tacky jobs. Like slashing refugee aid budgets and boosting disaster relief.”
Fresh roar of fervent cheers. Sound only, but supporters surely wore threadbare clothes. Feverish eyes on their hope.
The seagull dove where an old man fidgeted at the rail. Thud. Sound reached Winter’s eyes. Otherworldly audience thrilled. They’d whined of boredom moments ago. No surprise—they’d watched executions rowdily. Cruelty alone made entertainment.
The old man struggled up. Starved motions. Wet stain bloomed on ragged shirt. Meantime, seagull arced upward. Fresh blood dripped from its reddened beak, staining white feathers.
“Of course, President McMillan’s refugee policy isn’t all wrong. Proof’s our hero, Lieutenant Han Gyeowol, right?”
“...”
“But I ask you this: who else? One hero can’t justify 52 billion in spending! Better give a fraction to the hero himself! Not kidding. Last year, MLB’s top pitcher signed for 210 million. Our boy hero gets army lieutenant pay! Makes sense? Han Gyeowol’s feats worth less than some ballplayer? No. I’m a fan too, but I say no way! What about you? Tell me your answer!”
No! No! No!
“Listen to your voices! This is America’s cry!”
Waaah—!
Amid cheers, seagull hit apex. Flipped for second dive. Accelerating. Sensory boost eyed speed at ~60 knots. Over 100 kph plunge skimmed old man’s feeble thrashing.
Cloudy sun dipping in hazy sky. Fog crept from horizon. Winter, mulling, grabbed rifle before too late. Click. Post stocked hefty anti-materiel rifle. Anti-materiel—not for people. Punched hulls, shredded innards.
No choice. Pistol or carbine too far. Superhuman sight saw fine, but “Personal Firearms Proficiency” range topped at 1.2 km.
Winter drew rifle to chest. Buttstock wedged firm against forward shoulder. Unfolded bipod under barrel hooked post railing. Cheek to reinforced polymer rest.
“Opponents citing Lieutenant Han Gyeowol are dead wrong. ’Cause no one loves him more than me! Damn! I’m his number one fan! Promise you this: if I’m president, I’ll favor war heroes proper! Hell, House clerks make 172,500 a year, munching all day. Chief bodyguards guarding those politicians get the same 172,500. Can’t rest till Lieutenant Han Gyeowol gets more!”
Primary candidate hawked Winter’s name freely. Winter just turned volume down. Distraction. Birdshit loud anyway, but content grated.
Adjusted aim.
Seagull no raptor. Hard to hunt people. So attacks pendulum-like, repetitive. But swing narrowed gradually. As if timing old man’s time left.
Radio—whisper-low now—rang clearer.
“Say it again? Unrealistic goodwill kills everyone! Can’t give universal aid to 7 million refugees! Help only the qualified—those worth helping!”
Winter read wind from old man’s rags. Shirt flapped in struggle, buffeted by breeze. Senses discerned.
Boom!
Rifle roar worlds from small arms. Winter tracked stained bird’s glide. Twing, ting, ting. Finger-thick casing rolled across post floor. Then seagull exploded.
Blood-soaked old man recoiled in shock. Feathers snowflaked down, clinging to his shivers.
Clang-clang-clang. Urgent ladder rungs.
“What happened?! Enemy raid?!”
Sergeant Wolf tense as hell. Winter shrugged it off.
“Nah. Just shot a seagull.”
Radio demanded report. Winter repeated. Got an earful. That’s Sea Liberation turf. What if they mistook it for attack and fired back?
Could explain, but Winter didn’t feel like it. Just said:
“Sorry.”
Soon fog rolled to bay’s south. Unrefined oil smoke lent extra gray. Gas masks for watch, briefly. Visibility tanked; guard pointless. HQ ordered return.