Chapter 222
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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 222
Chapter Title: End of April (9)
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The war situation might not be as bad as all that.
On the fifth day, Winter encountered new evidence backing up his hunch.
“Is this perhaps... a special variant?”
Morales posed the question, though he sounded doubtful even to himself. Private First Class Mason replied.
“Like that one earlier, isn’t it just a freak?”
The phrasing was crude, but Winter’s experience leaned toward the latter. The variant sprawled before them had four thick, muscular arms. Its upper body was intimidating enough, but the lack of balance fore and aft, left and right threw its center of gravity all out of whack. In the end, even using its extra arms as legs, it had only managed a normal running speed. No matter how powerfully it swung those arms, a wobbly lower body rendered it meaningless.
Just like the one from earlier, as Mason said. The freak that had interrupted their breakfast was covered in eyes—far more than the normal pair. It had another pair on its back, and two more pairs on its arms.
It had the advantage of no blind spots, but its ability to process visual input couldn’t keep up with all those extra eyes. The ones on its arms were especially problematic. Every time it swung them in attack, its aim and posture twisted. Eventually, they’d watched the monster vomit from exhaustion. Dizzy, no doubt.
‘Rare to run into ones like these...’
Deformed variants were scarce, even after crossing the world’s end multiple times. They were stepping stones in the trial-and-error process of functionally mutating human bodies.
This was just Winter’s speculation, but there was no other way to piece together the full picture of this world besides experience and contemplation. Not unless he traded the countless stars embedded in his personal void for omniscience. Still, Winter believed his theory was close to the truth. He shared it with the soldiers.
“These aren’t ordinary mutations. Think of them as byproducts of special variants forming.”
“You’ve never seen anything like them before... Shouldn’t they be more common if that’s the case?”
“Who knows. Probably got eaten once they were deemed useless. Waste of resources, right?”
“...Damn. If that’s true, those monster bastards are something else.”
Mason, who had questioned him, wore a look of pure disgust.
In the past, to test this hypothesis, Winter had scoured ruins for non-viable remains. It wasn’t easy in a world littered with scattered corpses. Variants devoured prey down to the marrow, shattering bones and sucking them dry. The resulting fragments often mixed indistinguishably. Just like the other remains at the ranch where they’d found Excel.
Even so, he’d once found decisive proof. A plague devouring another plague. The victim had a grotesque form, with multiple appendages that weren’t quite arms or legs—their function was anyone’s guess. The very fact they were hard to fathom marked them for elimination.
The Department of Defense would reach a similar conclusion upon reviewing that footage. Regardless of Winter’s take, the world’s top minds were gathered there. A functioning government was helpful in many ways.
“In other words, they’re sending out not just the small fry, but even the ones they’d normally eat. Desperate to break the containment line if they’re padding numbers like this.”
Winter affirmed Morales’s hopeful take.
“The composition of variant groups has shifted rapidly over the past few days. Probably due in part to redeployments from the northern front. Not as robust as California’s, but Washington and Oregon had substantial forces. If we trust this, the East has gotten four million reinforcements.”
He held up his upgraded tactical PDA, which received continuous updates. Of course, frontline intel couldn’t be taken at face value. It was laced with lies and exaggerations for morale. The tactical support group for quarantine aid—where Winter had nearly been assigned—was proof. Even its members had been skeptical.
But when circumstantial evidence like this stared them in the face, it was different.
“From the variants’ perspective, it’s all-or-nothing, huh?”
“Yeah. If we can just weather this crisis, variant density should drop sharply. So we’ve got to do our part. Lighten the load on the East, you know.”
His words drew more positive reactions than before.
‘Is this brutal month really ending?’
Winter recalled the president’s poetic metaphor. It was just a borrowed line to express relief, but it fit the moment. Operation Clear Liberation was prepped as a surefire success under any circumstances. They’d amassed over ten million troops for it.
Air strikes in the central plains might be crippled, two million scattered, and variants swelling their ranks by hunting survivors—but if they could blunt the plague’s offensive, Clear Liberation could resume anytime. The rear was vulnerable due to frontline cracks, but manpower was still plentiful. They were still churning out new divisions nonstop.
America’s reclamation of the homeland would be a major turning point in this world. The front line would shorten dramatically, freeing up troops in equal measure. With that surplus, a push south to secure the Panama Canal would make North America far safer.
Woof!
A small dog barked. Winter turned from his musings to see Private First Class Schultz flustered by the attention, and the little mutt wagging its tail furiously. An empty packet of apple-flavored sauce from combat rations rolled on the ground. High calories, low sodium, liquid for easy digestion—perfect for a scrawny stray.
Winter beckoned.
“Step back. Not hygienic. Could have rabies.”
Having suffered animal attacks himself and seen them in others, Winter knew better. Rabies had a fatality rate rivaling Morgellons. Catch it, and you die. You wouldn’t run around brain-dead, but still. He recalled pre-catastrophe vaccinations for regular infantry were limited to Central and Southern Commands, based on the old continental U.S. And they required boosters.
“Uh... Got it.”
Schultz retreated with a grim look—either unvaccinated or overdue. But the dog kept clinging, making it awkward.
“It knows you saved it. If circumstances were different, it’d make a fine pet.”
Sergeant Harper sighed from her saddle, looking down. She wasn’t the only one disappointed. To mentally drained soldiers, a bit of cuteness hit harder.
The dog wagged at everyone. It had been fleeing deformed variants. Probably a dachshund mix. Happy, it spun in circles and yipped brightly. Uncontrollable noise. Even without hygiene issues, they couldn’t keep it.
Units often adopted animals, soldiers or otherwise. But this was quarantine warfare, far from ordinary. Winter turned his mount coldly.
“Leave it. We’ve got a support request nearby. Covering survivors.”
With a low whinny, Excel understood. The cavalry picked up speed. The dog bounded alongside at first, excited. But it fell behind. Its pitiful barks faded astern, then vanished into the wind. Schultz let out an inaudible sigh.
Dozens of flyers fluttered from the opposite direction. Winter snagged one mid-gallop. It detailed supply drop zones, rally points, retreat routes, precautions, and comms channels for survivors. Millions like it scattered daily.
Rat-tat-tat! Rat-a-tat-tat! Gunfire echoed ahead. On the open horizon, a platoon held around a supply crate, trading fire with a variant swarm. The variants used terrain for cover, closing in. Winter drew his anti-materiel rifle. Even without reins, his posture stayed steady. Riding skill, nimble movement, firearms proficiency. Twisting his torso, left arm as brace, the rifle quivered faintly with each hoofbeat. Bang! Perfect timing. A ghoul’s rear skull exploded, unaware of the distant riders.
Semi-auto fire followed. Each shot lethal.
Grraaawr—!
An unexpected grumble. But the trigger pulled mid-roar, the special round—two hundred times a standard bullet’s cost—blasted through its throat, shredding the medulla oblongata below the brain. No charge followed the roar. It twitched, a slow death. Pattern shifts might bring durable, gamma-grade threats, but these were all pre-enhanced.
Meanwhile, the troopers drew weapons, but at this range—even with 4x ACOGs—the targets were pinpricks. Hard to hit from horseback unless close. Still, they fired.
Thud-thud! Thud-thud! Thud-thud-thud!
Any that dodged were near ghouls. Winter spotted them, last round in the mag piercing hearts. Splurch! The sound hit visually—bones, flesh, guts erupting outward.
The pack between survivors and cavalry was wiped in seconds. Others followed fast. Closing in, Alejandro—heeding Winter’s signal—drew his backup: a six-shot grenade launcher. Thup-thup-thup! Grenades arced over the stragglers. “Take cover!” Survivors flattened. Lateral blasts shredded the approachers like a thousand invisible blades.
The firefight ended with machine-gun fire. One survivor, grabbing an 800-round backpack from the crate, hosed the ridge where variants charged. “Suppression” was generous—without leaders, most charged blindly to slaughter. The few who dodged or sought cover ate aimed shots.
“Who’s the senior officer?”
A dazed lieutenant stepped forward at Winter’s question. Name: Casper.
“Cavalry’s coming to save us... for real?”
The flyers said as much. The third day’s batch even had illustrations. Winter thought whoever suggested it had absurd leisure.
“Huh, not a lieutenant—a major?”
“Promoted.”
“...Huh.”
The lieutenant’s eyes were vacant long after. His gun hand trembled. Probably a platoon leader or company commander. Still, this was decent. Same unit patch on everyone meant above-average competence, conservatively.
“Major Casper, can you lead your unit to the rally point?”
“Uh, can’t you come with? No, forget it—please?”
“I’d like to, but Trickster hunting takes priority. We can stand watch while you resupply and eat. We need a break too... Assuming no new orders by then.”
This much was because Winter’s presence—even briefly—made a huge difference. Soldiers still dropped, out cold from exhaustion, startling comrades.
Grumbling rose as soldiers unlocked crates.
“Damn it, why lock these stupid things! Nearly died out of ammo earlier!”
Containment Command, and the DoD, were paranoid about weapons reaching variants. Ordinary ones wouldn’t manage, but a beta ghoul or higher—with dexterity and smarts—might learn. Even one in hundreds would upend tactics.
Statistics said over half of civilian aid drops in contaminated zones fed variants.
Hence numbered padlocks on airdrops, especially arms and ammo. Codes were simple math on the crates: 1100 + 700 + 90 + 2. Direct codes risked compromise.
Facing screaming charges, fumbling locks with shaky hands nearly got platoons wiped—desk-jockeys earned curses. U.S. public schools left some illiterate in arithmetic. Winter saw it as unavoidable.
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