Chapter 207
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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 207
Chapter Title: #Survivors (10)
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At first, Winter had considered going in alone. To minimize both ammunition expenditure and potential casualties. But he didn’t know the enemy’s numbers, or the survivors’ count, identities, or conditions. A short-term decisive strike would inevitably lack flexibility against varied situations.
“With this much commotion, there shouldn’t be any ambushes.’
He’d only circled the outskirts and observed from afar, but until yesterday, there’d been no signs of the plague in these streets.
Even those in dormancy would’ve been drawn out by the noise. In a major city, he’d have to watch for organized raids by enhanced variants, but this was just a small town with barely a thousand residents. Any sudden attack would amount to scattered assaults at best.
If things got really dicey, he’d just break off at full speed. Even from the deepest point, breaking through three blocks in a straight line would get him out of the urban area.
In pitch-black conditions without light, soldiers with night-vision goggles held the edge over the variants.
The only bridge into the town from the south was flanked by dense trees stretching dozens of meters across. Winter opted to ford the stream at a spot with thinner vegetation. The watercourse was at most ten meters wide, hadn’t seen recent rain so it wasn’t deep, and the current was sluggish.
The five riders crossed the water. Waves broke just below the stirrups, splashing droplets onto their combat boots. Winter, in the lead, slashed through the tangled undergrowth at the water’s edge in one go.
Entering the village via the road west of the low-rise apartment complex, a coyote startled and bolted. The variants’ commotion was still coming from the north.
They cut across a vacant lot between houses, climbing uphill. A few times, they had to smash through fences—the team’s riding skills weren’t up to leaping obstacles yet. That brought them into a small baseball field, part of the school grounds. On the side of the playground scarred by a long-past storm, three variants still unaware of them jerked their heads around.
Kyaaak, kyaek, kyaek!
They’d broken off from the main group upon hearing the fence shatter—scouts, probably. The main pack likely held something worse than ghouls.
Winter gestured a few times, widening the intervals between his riders. They approached at a light trot. Starlight alone wouldn’t reveal them easily. The Friesian’s black coat blended into the dark, and Winter’s gear differed from standard U.S. military issue. He was still in his pitch-black Orca Black tactical uniform. The rebar was twisted behind his back to minimize reflections.
‘Should’ve given it a matte finish…’
It hadn’t occurred to him. A mix of oil and ash smeared on the unreachable spots would’ve sufficed. A late regret, but no issue for now.
As distance closed, the ash-gray monsters perked their ears at the hoofbeats. But approaching from the shadow of the building corner, they didn’t spot the group even at striking range. Winter was like a camouflaged predator. His muscles tensed, power coiling.
Ambush. Heavy strike. Bone fragments sprayed. Shattered skull tore through flesh. The variant’s brain pulped before it could scream. The club outpaced the spray of brain matter. The remaining two crumpled before turning their heads.
For the last one, he smashed down on its bent neck. Vertebrae snapped and tumbled. Thud. The severed head rolled heavily. Gape, gape. Only now spotting the spare host, it rolled its eyes and tried to shriek. Even seeing its headless body kneel, it seemed oblivious to the meaning. No sound came, so it gnashed its teeth irritably. Clackclackclack! But that faded quickly too—the head dying from lack of oxygen and blood.
“Clear. Close up.”
At Winter’s radio call, the mobile team spurred closer. The soldiers shot disgusted looks at the gray corpse flailing in denial of death.
Radio reception was excellent. No sign of Tricksters.
‘“The Silent One”… Yeah, no surprise there.’
He’d briefly worried about a special Trickster that preserved intel without engaging. But without other Tricksters, it’d be pointless.
Passing a desolate playground with its empty swing swaying lonely, they headed toward the discord between houses.
Crash! Glass shattering. As distance shrank, human voices finally emerged—hoarse, hard to distinguish from plague howls, laced with desperate curses. In English. Gabe! Damn it! Winter jammed the spurs into Excel and pushed hard.
“Charge! Full gallop!”
He kept obstacles to the left. With the wind from the west, scents carried the variants’ presence. Preventing ambushes, he smashed another fence and plunged in.
It was a house with an unusually large yard. Nearly a hundred variants swarmed the big structure. Augmented hearing picked up the melee inside—no gunshots, pure close-quarters.
The horde rippled at the mobile team’s arrival. Too many to charge straight in.
“McLaughlin! Mason! Eleven o’clock, grenades!”
The gap from some peeling off was perfect for frag. Too dense, and bodies block; now, not.
Winter pulled his own pin. Even with resupply, he had priority but only two. He hurled fiercely; confidence in airburst let him ignore density. Target: inside the crumbling wall, the packed variants.
Boom! Bang! Kra-boom!
Three frag blasts shredded rotten flesh. Smoke and corrupted blood stench wafted far. Even the horses, drilled on gunfire for days, startled. Riders soothed them—hooves pawing, one soldier barely avoiding a fall.
Bloodied corpses littered near the epicenter. Beyond the circle of bodies, survivors wailed madly.
Winter gauged his charge path through them. They’d heard the blasts inside, realized rescue. No suicidal abandon.
“Morales! Take command! Maintain distance, fire! Prioritize roof-climbers! After one mag, fall back and handle approachers only!”
“Yes, sir!”
Excel’s earth-shattering leap shoved the world behind. Hooves trampled the explosion’s edge, the wailing fallen. Plagues mulched under the massive charge.
Rat-tat! Rat-a-tat-tat!
Support fire’s burst sounded like full-auto from overlapping three-rounds. Tracer streaks like sunset flashes zipped overhead. Variants breaching second-floor windows from the roof staggered. Horseback shooting wasn’t pinpoint, but panicked falls sufficed—at least wounded.
Winter felled more than the four’s fire combined. Felt like 30 kph; at that speed, he battered every variant in reach. Focus on disabling over kills, but mass made all strikes lethal.
Splat—
Unlike average variants leaving vitals exposed, a smart one crossed arms to block. Crushed limbs drove into torso. Ribs punctured lung. Gurk, glurk—choking, trampled by fellows in pursuit of Winter’s rampage.
In ideal conditions, short sprint might’ve caught the horse. Plague hosts outdid humans in stamina. But cavalry charge’s wounds tripped them. Dead or wounded blocked paths. Human feet weren’t steel-shod hooves.
Mid-turn, spotting a rear ghoul, Winter switched hands on rebar, drew pistol.
Bang!
Casing ejected. Ghoul’s eye pulped liquidly. Holstered and reset before the corpse toppled.
Winter pierced the now-chaotic horde straight once more, then wheeled Excel toward the house front. Melee still echoed through the shattered entrance. Variants paced irritably below jammed stairs, oblivious to outside.
Hyah! The warhorse responded. Indoor charge. He ducked low through the expanding doorway. Spacious hall for humans cramped for cavalry. Winter thrust the taut rebar straight. Crack! A turning variant’s forehead caved.
Passing stair side, he smashed the high diagonal railing above. Ankles beyond snapped, tumbling the stair-crawling monsters. Many vaulted over, falling. Winter already past. Continuous strikes on the narrow front cleared to the wide foyer where stairs to living room began, brute-forcing through.
Bang! Rat-a-bang!
Gunshots echoed relentlessly when hordes massed. Louder indoors. Past the tight hall, Winter’s prowess peaked.
Stair-land variants rushed down—but footing all writhing bodies meant tumbling. Winter sideswiped a leaping one’s waist, folding it, then rode Excel up the stairs outright. Swiftly smashing any threatening the horse.
Among those slain: three infected U.S. soldiers.
Tattered, bloodied uniforms, but proper ballistic helmets. Unrotted skin meant infected today, here probably.
Thud, thump!
Close to the nonstop guttural curses. Variants packed the second-floor hall, howling. Survivors behind the door they shoved—hinges gone, now raw tug-of-war. Room wider than hall. Human side’s stacked weight barely held.
Dismounting now, Winter massacred the unremarkable variants one-sidedly. Some corpses smashed railings, fell. Tight space hurt plagues more—hard to leverage numbers.
Crash. Clearing even door-clingers, survivors spilled out from desperate shove. Filthy GIs. Panic slowed assessment. Screams thinking breach, even aiming at Winter and pulling triggers.
No shots. No “Survival Instinct” or “Combat Sense” warnings. Bolts locked back, empty chambers exposed.
‘No mags to begin with…’
Clearly not greenhorns.
“Easy! Here to rescue you!”
No time to waste. Fight raged outside. Sporadic shots over walls. Conserving ammo.
A staggering private plopped, stared blankly upward.
“Lt., Lieutenant Han? L-Lieutenant? For real?”
Different gear slowed recognition. Flickering lantern lit Winter.
“Anyone bitten?”
Soldiers froze. Two faces paled in despair. One worse.
Gurk, grrrgh—
Final mutation timing. Winter grimaced, jammed rebar into spewing mouth, slammed to wall. Thud! Skull hit. Eyes rolled up. Bulging veins, convulsions raw agony.
Winter regripped, snapped up.
Crunch.
Cervical snapped; limp slump. Broken incisor mixed in thick saliva, drooled.
Dead man’s unit patch new to Winter: red field, blue emblem like a river bridge.
Rebar recovered, Winter drew pistol on remaining infected pair.
“Last words?”
But they just sobbed. Mercy-kill too harsh, bad for morale.
“Who’s senior man here?”
“M-Me, sir.”
Raised hand: staff sergeant. Nameplate: OSBORNE.
U.S. sergeant meant skill, experience. Why he seemed intact. Confirmed no madness, Winter handed pistol.
“Take their last words. If they turn, do what’s needed. I’ll clear outside and return.”
At “do what’s needed,” Osborne shuddered.
Winter would’ve done it with time.
Couldn’t spare bullets by giving a knife.
By the time Winter helped the team mop up outside variants, radio from Baker Boulevard at Reyes Station perimeter crackled in. Inside: two shots rang out.
============================ Author's Note ============================
#Signed Book Shipping
Originally planned to send all 10 at once, but feels too long for those who applied, so prioritizing 8.
Time’s tight, but post office by Friday latest.
Should arrive next week Monday-Tuesday-ish.
#Ebook
Ebook vol. 6 out first week of May, per editor. They’re pacing serialization 2 vols ahead.
Means squeezing myself out faster speeds it up...
Uh...
ㅠㅠ
#Q&A
Q. BlueCrystal: @Did you delete that part cuz it was too brutal?? Heard it was cut from book unlike web serial. Wanna compare. Think you said around ch20? Can’t find where.
A. Not brutality—obscenity review regs. Gore was iffy at first but okay later.
Scene’s in ch24. Chairman inspects Winter’s body pre-transaction.
Q. Carpis: @Paper book...want signed...curse my frontal lobe that can’t review. Can I get at Luru??
A. Luru gate moved to Guri-si, Gyeonggi lately. Haha.
Many want signatures on ramen stands, mulling a signing event later.
Q. PigDada: @No need to answer! Just ebook6 schedule~~~ Trust author only. Laughed hard at post. Told hubby, he said author cute, laughed tooㅋㅋㅋㅋ I’m couple years older maybe, hubby bit older than me, so cute’s fine?ㅋㅋ Thanks always. Reading happy!
A. More legs, cuter creatures. Cthulhu drives folk mad from excess cuteness.
Thrilled my writing amuses you both. Will keep giving best. :)