Chapter 211
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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 211
Chapter Title: #Survivors (14)
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No human screams could be heard. Were they already being torn apart?
It was a momentary suspicion. There was meaning even in the mutants' roars. They didn't let out rough bellows even after the hunt was over. What was the situation? Hiding in the bushes? Or barricaded inside a mountain lodge? Or maybe they'd climbed a tree. It was simple, but it was straight out of the survival manual. Infected mutants, less precise than humans, didn't climb trees well.
Of course, that only applied to ordinary mutants. Ghouls were nimble. In fact, enhanced mutants were plenty threatening with just a stationary leap.
Either way, it was hard to imagine a chase scene. Even trained soldiers couldn't compete in stamina against infected monsters. Let alone in terrain like this. Running up a steep incline, human legs gave out before even a hundred meters. Downhill, the mutants would outpace humans.
Still, there was no room for complacency. Until they knew the situation, they had to assume the worst.
"Lieutenant! We should head in over there!"
Morales called out in a low voice. The route he'd found was a dry valley—a riverbed that only flowed during the rainy season. A natural path through the forest. There might be a walking trail nearby since houses were close, but they didn't have time to search. Winter turned his mount.
"Watch left and right in pairs. Head up to the watershed for now."
The rear was less dangerous as long as they kept up speed. And there was no need to look back unless they planned to retreat. If it came to that, Winter intended to turn and clear the way himself. Riding downhill was tricky, but his near-expert 「Horsemanship」 could manage it.
The plague's chorus echoed from the side the whole way up. The distance drew near, then pulled away again, but the screamers didn't seem to be moving. It was just a shift due to their own movement. That let them roughly pinpoint the location. Charging straight toward the sound would have been the worst option.
The fixed position added certainty to his earlier guess.
The dense foliage distorted distances, ramping up the soldiers' tension to the max. To prevent misfires, Winter raised his hand. It meant "not yet." They might shoot at wind-shaken branches.
They skirted the edge of a small alluvial fan and reached the watershed after just a hundred meters. The boundary where pouring rain split to either side of the mountain. Beneath the canopy where late spring sunlight shattered into flecks, a narrow path wound along. With low undulations following the ridgeline, it was well-suited as a cavalry route in the mountains.
Now they headed north. Winter picked an ambush point and positioned the mobile team members. Crossfire in an X pattern. Unless there were cunning specimens, mutants didn't bother with cover. Creatures that didn't guard their vitals weren't likely to show advanced defensive instincts. New infections came first. Still, with so much blocking line of sight, staggered shooting was the way to go.
Winter swung his heavy cold weapon about twenty meters down the slope. Crunch, crunch, crunch. He left marks on several trees. Visual markers for the soldiers.
"I'll lure the enemy. They'll come in diagonally from over there. If they cross this line, break south. Remember the farm by the lake? If things go wrong, we rendezvous there."
"Understood. Be careful, sir."
Fighting solo in the wooded slope carried risks. Primarily the lack of space to swing his weapon. It could go smoothly or turn dicey. That was why he'd set up the ambush. Just in case.
'No way it'll come to retreating.'
If it went well, he could handle them all alone without burning ammo.
"Let's go, Excel!"
Insurance was in place. No need to worry about noise anymore. If the sound scattered the enemy, all the better for them. Winter zigzagged Excel along. In this terrain, it was actually faster than a straight charge.
He approached with deliberate noise. The stench of rotting flesh grew close. At last, beyond the low bushes, he spotted the infected pack. And atop the trees, the terrified survivors.
'Civilians? Why?'
Winter, who'd naturally assumed U.S. military, felt a brief moment of confusion. The light aircraft he'd glimpsed on the way crossed his mind. Were they connected? Had civilians needed to cross an aerial blockade?
Groar!
He cleaved the first charging one and realized their identity. No connection. The clue was the ID badges around their necks. War correspondents. Winter felt a touch of relief. They'd met with disaster while covering the liberation operation. But where was their escort? Why so many reporters?
Spotting the war hero out of nowhere, their faces flashed through a torrent of emotions. Disbelief and shock gave way to accepting unbelievable luck, twisting into a painful yearning.
"Lieutenant Han Gyeowol! Lieutenant Han Gyeowol! Lieutenant Han Gyeowol!"
Cheers verging on screams. Splattering spit gleamed like morning dew.
Excel, growing accustomed to mutant approaches day by day, spun in place. Cleverly lending power to her rider. Winter twisted his upper body from the waist to match the rotation. His empowered cold weapon swept a full 180 degrees. He slashed five in one go and outright killed two. None of the five tumbling down the slope were unscathed.
The last one caught between thick steel and wood had its lungs crushed. Bloodied ribs punched through flesh. Hack, hack. It spat its final breath in coughs, then the creature—unable to breathe—
"Aaah! Han Gyeowol! Han Gyeowol!"
—collapsed to its knees. Sob, ugh. Foam-mixed blood streamed from its mouth. Winter snapped the weapon back with a sharp pull. He adjusted his grip short, supported it with one hand, and thrust with the other like a bolt of lightning. Crisp as a billiards shot, but—
"Here! Here! Save me! Please! Save me!"
—to the recipient, a neck-snapping strike. The monster, with three vertebrae bulging out the back of its neck, toppled and was trampled. Two more leaped from the trampling. Foul breath bridged the gap. Winter twisted his wrists. He felt air resistance. The wind-rending cold weapon shaved off the skull.
Meanwhile, the remaining one was too close for a steel swing. He drove in a fist instead. Crack! Rather than retracting, he opened his hand to seize the head, crushing one eyeball with his thumb—
"Yeah! Die! Die! You motherfucking bastards!"
...What a mess. The reporter, screaming with horrific hatred, nearly fell, swept up in his own passionate flailing. He barely clung to the branch. Mutants leaped at the dangling legs. A shoe slipped off. Exhausted, the man just screamed while dangling—he couldn't climb back up. He'd started by hugging the branch, but as strength faded, he ended up hanging by his fingertips.
"Climb up, Gilbert! Please! Hang in there!"
His colleagues wailed.
Ha. Could've wrapped it up here. With a sigh, Winter flung the one he'd grabbed. He spurred immediately. Excel plunged into the mutants without hesitation. Destructive steel crashed down on the nearest monster. Crunch—its shoulder sank to solar plexus height. Crushed lung and flopping heart spilled out. The lowered arm twitched grotesquely.
He whittled down the clustered mutants with rifle fire while pushing in. That took a full magazine right there.
"Let go!"
It was as if the man couldn't hear. The reporter, desperately clinging beneath the horse's feet oblivious to the drop, squeezed his eyes shut and screamed, pouring every ounce of strength into his grip.
Drawing on his 「Horsemanship」 prowess, Winter stood in the stirrups. Even as mutants closed in right then. Bare seconds of leeway.
"Look at me!"
Yelling did no good. The reporter was beyond hearing anything. Just an ordinary guy. He thrashed his legs wildly when grabbed. His own momentum flung him loose. Winter caught him with both arms. A tall, bearded white man cradled in a boy's arms.
At least no bite marks—fortunate.
Excel faltered at the sudden weight shift, but Winter shifted posture to minimize the burden on the horse. The man, sat behind the saddle and oblivious to what he was doing, clung to Winter. Winter guided the arm-clutching hand to his waist while swinging the iron bar with his free hand to check the closing horde. Awkward stance sapped the power. Most that had tumbled down the slope popped back up largely intact.
"Snap out of it! I'm not going to eat you!"
The reporter, who'd been bawling and begging not to be eaten, finally cracked his eyes open. But before he could get his bearings, all he saw was the charging mutant horde. His panic deepened, and he clung on in a total mess. Unable to mount a proper attack, Winter had no choice but to wheel his mount around.
"Hang on just a bit longer! I'll come back!"
Shouting that, Winter spurred Excel on. Desperate wails of pure longing echoed plaintively. A multi-voiced roar chorus chased after. Dozens clambering over the reporters, then dozens refocusing on Winter.
In the end, he had to cash in the insurance.
"War Horse! Battle stations! Entering from 2 o'clock!"
He radioed after closing distance. Even with prior warning, he had to repeat to prevent friendly fire. Solo action in front of the fireline was that risky.
'How much ammo this time.'
Over a hundred rounds here, and Captain Langford would be tossing in his sleep.
But he couldn't just leave civilians to die.
The soldiers came into naked-eye view. Despite the warning, a single warning shot streaked out briefly. A thick tracer meant they'd been a hair from firing. Private MacLarin. Rancher's son, slotted into the mobile team for riding skill first, but green in combat—overly tense. The scattered ambush made it worse.
"Hold!"
He had to draw them into range for sure hits.
"Hold!"
Winter shouted again, shoving the dangling reporter aside to check the rear.
"Fire!"
Bang! Bang! Ratatata-bang!
Mutants entering the kill zone dropped in heaps. Bones, flesh chunks, and wood splinters sprayed. The X-crossfire at optimal range squeezed max efficiency from minimal ammo.
With shooting underway, Winter couldn't close in for melee. Couldn't ride Excel into the bullet storm. Rifle locked steady, he picked off the ones the soldiers missed. The sobbing, clinging reporter had glazed eyes. Winter abandoned any attempt to calm him.
Winter raised his hand high after emptying yet another magazine.
"Cease fire! Cease fire!"
The fierce triple-line barrage tapered off into sporadic shots.
Even mutants couldn't sprint a slope like flat ground forever. The ones slowed from chasing Winter became easy pickings for the soldiers. The result was the current scene. Despite their ammo-conservation hang-ups, they'd perfectly wiped the enemy in moments.
Groooan—
The survivors were crippled. No need to finish them off right away.
"Morales! Take this guy!"
Winter handed the reporter to the sergeant. Awkward to grab, so by the collar. Passed horse-to-horse, the reporter flailed before hugging the burly private tight. He reeked. The sergeant made a sour face.
"More?"
"Yeah! Wait here!"
He instructed and doubled back the way he'd come. Excel's breathing was ragged. Uphill fatigue. Mid-gallop, Winter stroked the black mare's mane. Just a bit more.
The reporters were still there. Trembling, clinging with their whole bodies to avoid falling. One of them was oblivious to his own mutation starting.
Winter swiftly mopped up the rest.
The last was a reporter who'd tumbled mid-mutation. Her skin tone shifted; shock had choked her breath—she couldn't stand, teeth chattering. Winter smashed her forehead with steel.
Even so, five reporters had survived. More had died. Those who hadn't made it high enough had turned mutant. Winter collected their press badges and a few personal effects. No way to haul the bodies.
"Hey, do you understand me?"
The one still somewhat sane, sobbing as he looked up at the boy officer. Gunshots rang out. Finishing off the half-dead mutants, probably. Winter soothed the terrified reporter as he asked.
"You guys alone? Where's your escort?"
Over a hundred kilometers from the blockade, however they'd come. Hard to buy civilians making it solo.
The reporter mumbled, then—unable to speak—pointed a finger in a direction.
Winter linked up with Morales and, based on the reporters' accounts, scouted the two-lane road between peaks. Reporters rode; the team walked for two hours. At last, they found traces of a fierce firefight. The mobile team members startled at the Grumble corpse.
The massive carcass had a ragged maw. Shredded GIs littered the area.
Following the skid marks led to two flipped Humvees, one fully dismantled armored vehicle, one truck with a wrecked engine, and two crushed vans. The Humvees—one with a medium machine gun mount, the other a high-velocity grenade launcher—had no ammo left in either.
The soldiers silently recovered the bodies. Along the way, they salvaged useful gear: radios, batteries, lanterns, entrenching tools, and such. The reporters, tears dried up, sobbed from their throats as they rummaged the vans. He'd given them time to grab effects, food, or other essentials, but amid it all, they were gathering intact camera gear. It didn't seem deliberate. Awkward.
"Help them out?"
Winter nodded at Morales's question. With three men, they righted a Humvee easily. The less damaged one. Fuel gauge wasn't bottomed out, true to a last-ditch run. Door wouldn't latch, but if it started, it'd be useful.
"Any chance of salvaging it?"
"Let's give it a shot. Sturdier than it looks. Parts from the other one might do the trick."
Private Wesley's words. The vehicle-savvy soldiers swapped opinions. American as ever—plenty had hands-on basic maintenance experience.
While they worked, Winter led Excel in a wide patrol circle. Standard vigilance. He'd hoped, but no sign of U.S. survivors.
'Six civilians with zero combat power.'
If they could somehow get air-dropped supplies. Winter glanced at the sky. Whatever the situation, a civilian bird crossing overhead meant a shot at signaling. A civilian emergency channel ping would definitely get picked up. Best hope for now.
He returned to Alejandro greeting him from the driver's seat. The Humvee was running.
The original recon mission ended here. After all, the mobile team and Winter were U.S. military. Protecting civilians took priority.
============================ Author's Note ============================
#Q&A
Q. nnuhgwyegd: Author-nim, the excessive protagonist correction, no-setup luck, illogic in this novel is a huge obstacle. The sudden skill jumps in people around the protagonist are blatantly off. We can chalk it up to "it's a game," but is that what you want?
A. You're probably referring to the soldiers' riding skills. I have no intention of depicting anything that unnatural.
The mobile team are the top riders in the company—Morales alone has ranch experience. America's the world's top livestock nation, so it's not weird for a few out of eighty to have ridden horses. Not at a high level, sure.
Even if the context implied it, that's on me for not conveying it clearly enough.
Q. Dduni-ya: @Author-nim I skim when reading fast so I check afterwords spotty hehe; Not sure if you've said but sudden thought—what's your nick mean? Backstabby son of a bitch or something? Twist-y author!?
A. No. Tunguska is a Russian river name and the region around it. Famous for the early 20th-century meteor fall. The Tunguska Explosion event.
Q. PlaneTr: Perfume works to turn it on... For real? lol
A. High-alcohol content perfume only.
Q. Gum Effect Hyundai: (strategic skip) Have you ever served in the U.S. military? You explain U.S. military culture well, and the terms, alpha abbreviations, org structure, U.S. military lingo seem super detailed, so asking. I was 91J.
A. 91J is maintenance, right?... Anyway, no, I'm not ex-U.S. military. Never even been to America. Heck, never left Korea. Sad. ㅠㅠ
Q. Hurian: @Which countries haven't fallen yet—got any set?
A. A few pinned down, but more not set.
Q. Otter7: @As a reader watching you grind out tough stuff, might sound cheeky, but lately it feels like you're focusing too much on in-game combat parts. No chat scenes or Camp Winter Alliance bits in a while. These sections are good, but balancing with earlier stuff would make it more fun.
A. Fair point. Something I agonize over writing Columbarium.
Chats are honestly brutal to write, and hearing nonstop "you're just grifting," "no conscience," "thief" was giving me neurosis.
I'll work on balance. Thanks.