Chapter 6
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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 6
Chapter Title: Supply Procurement (4), San Miguel
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The San Miguel mill was a wooden structure that looked like it had been built ages ago, but it was enormous. Big enough to fit thirty average houses inside with room to spare. Railroad tracks ran along the left side. Thanks to that, even in the middle of town, the view opened up wide to the north and south. They were picking volunteers to guard the crossing, and refugees with lightly packed duffels rushed to sign up. No one wanted to be stuck searching dangerous buildings. A sturdy young man who looked like he might be a college student and a middle-aged guy with a bit of a gut got selected.
Sergeant Elliot led the rest around to the right side of the mill. There were four doors. Besides the office entrance, three were for loading cargo onto vehicles. A semi-trailer that must have been used for hauling freight sat abandoned nearby. Winter tugged on the driver's side door. Locked.
All the entrances to the mill stood wide open. No interior lights, so each door gaped like a pitch-black hole. There were no lanterns among the gear handed out to the refugees. Should've been standard issue—a fatal oversight in the planning phase. Of course, even if there had been lanterns, no one would've volunteered to go in first. Except for the Winter boy.
Just like at the fire station, there might be vehicle keys in the office. As Winter moved to enter without hesitation, Private First Class Guilherme grabbed him.
"Gonna take point again? Want me to come with?"
"No. Leaders are important. Just lend me a lantern."
"Hoo-ah."
The soldier whistled at the kid's guts. He handed over his flashlight. A tactical lantern that bent at right angles, designed to strap to the outside of body armor.
They'd taken on refugee volunteers to spare American lives, but in the long run, no one wanted casualties among them either. Still, the volunteers were being way too passive. The soldiers figured they'd see how far the boy could go.
Winter kept his rifle slung over his back and gripped a single jungle knife tightly as he approached the office entrance. Inside, stairs led straight up. Narrow enough for one adult, and after three or four steps, darkness swallowed everything. Perfect setup to rattle nerves.
Like at the fire station, the boy tapped the walls with the flat of his jungle knife. If there were any infected variants reacting to sound, come out and play. After a few taps, sure enough, footsteps echoed from above. Single set—no overlaps. Winter climbed without turning on the lantern. Betting on smell and presence alone.
Creak, crick. The sounds of something climbing and descending clashed in dissonance. Pitch black ahead—nothing visible. A monotonous, eerie rustle underlay it all. Not scared, but his heart raced. He felt it pounding. Artificial sensation. The system deemed it necessary. Viewer message alerts exploded.
The infected variant's breathing was ragged. The stench came from rotting skin. According to the info, the pathogen messed with the host's immune system during takeover, causing widespread inflammation, swelling, and decay. Airways narrowed, sharpening the breaths. The foul smell and noise closed in. At some point, Winter boldly reached out with his empty hand.
Something grabbed hold.
"Kreeeeh!"
A guttural screech like grinding vocal cords. The boy dropped low, shoving up under its legs. Spittle-mixed hot breath washed over the back of his neck. Crash! Viewers with "Sensory Synchronization" on must've been floored. Intentional. He flicked on the lantern. The thrashing variant on its back squinted. Mutated or not, base was human—pupil adaptation no different. He jammed the knife into its screaming maw. Reflexively clamping jaws bit down on the blade—didn't matter. Leaned his weight on the handle.
Crunch, crrrunch—
Twisting the tip ground the brainstem with audible pops. Lit by the light, the variant's limbs spasmed, stiffened, then slumped twitching. Even then, its eyes rolled to glare at the boy. But motor functions gone—no threat. Heart stopped; it'd die soon.
He dragged it down by the leg. People waiting outside tensed, rifles trained, but relaxed with a sigh at the boy's outstretched hand signaling no shoot. Dumped the corpse by the entrance, then climbed back up.
Clear this time. Office lights unresponsive. Relied on lantern to search. True to American form, found a beat-up pistol in a drawer. Two boxes of fifty .45 ACP FMJ rounds, spare mag too.
Also nabbed the vehicle keys and grain silo keys he'd targeted. Even a humidor. Pocketed it in case Guilherme or Elliot smoked.
Descending, Guilherme approached.
"Any bites?"
Voice muffled through the full-face gas mask. Boy shook his head, arms out. Check yourself. The private inspected, then thumbs-upped back at Elliot a short distance away. Sergeant nodded.
"Guilherme, you smoke?"
"Hell yeah. Oh my God. Cohiba Robusto?"
"Split with Elliot."
He handed the whole box to the delighted soldier. Cuban handmade cigars ran over ten bucks each. No wonder he was thrilled. Looked itching to light one up.
"Found the keys. Mind if I check the truck?"
Small thing, but ask permission. Soldiers eyed each other. Sergeant nodded.
Boy went to the vehicle, tested the key. Door unlocked. Slid into driver's seat. Turned it—engine purred smoothly. Truck vibrated. Engine roar made the crossing guards visibly tense.
Fuel plenty. Knew basics of driving, so no need to invest XP in the skill to move it. System assist enabled fancier maneuvers, but not urgent now.
Backed it to the mill's central loading dock, then entered the building. Not total dark—sunlight leaked through gaps in the corrugated metal roof. Still dim as hell, shadows pooling everywhere. Anything could lurk. Trailing people froze stiff, barely moving.
Same pattern. Banged on grain silos to check for signs of life. Waited—silence. Winter swept light around, confirmed safe. Really empty. Rare. Still, no letting guard down. Some variants had rotten ears or burst eardrums.
People finally stirred.
"Whew. This is insane."
Elliot whistled. Piles of milled wheat and corn everywhere. Haul this out, food worries solved for a while. Perfunctory hygiene check needed, but meaningless. Gas masks they wore were for show. If truly worried about pathogens, full hazmat suits. Ignoring minor risks showed how bad things were in the American West.
Winter eyed something else. Mill handled seed trades too—bags of various crop seeds stacked aside. Seemed perfect for farming, but huge trap. Bags with certain company logos: harvest 'em, replant, no germination.
Terminator seeds. Seed companies profited selling superior strains; farmers rebuy yearly or bust. Genetically engineered to prevent regrowth.
Winter had hit a bad end once from it. Even a challenge.
"Challenge: No way, my crops are sterile!"
Kid had built a stable community—bolt from the blue. Year two harvest near zero. Members denounced leader Winter, panic from shortages collapsed it. Boy got killed amid chaos.
Come to think, should tell viewers. Reluctantly pulled up message log. Every time, immersion shattered—hard to pretend real.
Paused world, activated "Teletype." Focused thoughts converted to text instantly.
"Han Gyeowol: New to Day after Apocalypse? Easy mistake: don't plant seeds found here willy-nilly. Most genetically modified. High yield, but replant next year? No sprouts. Tanks community stability hard—tough to progress. Pick unlabeled bags like these, or stockpile multiples for reuse. Challenge 'No way, my crops are sterile!' worth a bad end for effect if you want, but reward just minor pest/drought resistance for crops—not game-changer."
Instant reactions.
"ㄹㅇㅇㅈ: Realism in the dumbest spots lololol"
"이슬악어: Sterile lololol my crops are sterile lmao bitter taste max lolol"
"제시카정규직: I know this. Multinational seed corps screwing poor countries. Especially MonXto fucking bastards. They stole our Cheongyang peppers and spinach seeds—patents good for decades. Korean spinach you eat? All US OEM. Oh, judge? Cat wrote this."
"반닼홈: Watching broadcaster rn? Dude, that zombie neck flip earlier? Felt it thru screen fml epic. Stars incoming bro"
[반닼홈 sent 10 stars.]
"진한개: Jessica know-it-all finally outed? Nice."
"제시카정규직: Why pick fight psycho."
"눈밭여우: Don't fight guys."
[눈밭여우 sent 10 stars.]
"팥고물: Fox why butt in? Fun af. Keep going good job more."
Messages flew too fast to read all. Boy tallied virtual currency "stars." Few万 won equivalent. Felt even more uneasy.
Closed log, unpaused. Time flowed again.
Elliot, face bright at food mountains, radioed main group. Road cleared—bring trucks. Guilherme directed refugees to load semi-trailer at dock.
Boy joined; Guilherme winked, held him back.
"Brave kid, take a breather. You've carried enough solo."
"...Yeah."
Winter nodded. Lingering unease showed.
Outside, vehicles rumbled up. Not civilian—four military transports with sloped prows. Lead rider: black staff sergeant from camp yesterday, screening volunteers. Pierce. Grinned big at flour overflowing trucks.
"Can work the cooks overtime now."
Good vibes didn't last. Odd noise from north, drawing closer. Uneasy air.
"What's that? Check it."
On staff sergeant's order, Elliot radioed crossing guards. Anything north? North exit open for train loading—grain silos, rusty water tower, cranes blocked view.
But doom heralded by sound first. Clacking unmistakably train on rails. Soldiers knew service stopped long ago—baffled. Worse: abandoned cars littered inbound track. Train barreled on full speed. Radio word blanched Elliot.
"Goddamn it."
He spun, sprinting, bellowing.
"Everyone out! Unsafe!"
Mill filled with screams instantly.
All felt train closing. Boom—crunch—surely smashing vehicles. If one caught under wheels, derailment.
Before all evacuated, crooked locomotive smashed north wall, burst in. Burning steel mass crushed pillars, shoved silos, rolled. Ceiling caved. Engine buried in wood rubble, stopped—but building groaned collapse. Winter barely escaped. Many pinned under debris.
"Lift rubble! Save the buried!"
Pierce, dusted in grime, who'd escaped clean, bellowed. Wooden single-story—good survival odds.
"Staff Sergeant! Look there!"
Soldier yelled urgently. Zigzagged, overturned passenger cars. Human-like things crawled from doors/windows. Others flung out during roll staggered up. Heard yell? All snapped this way.
"Kreeeeeeh!"
"Shit! Infected!"
Not one or two. Packed train—maggots from corpse, pouring out. Unbroken ones charged already. Fastest nearly at truck tail.
"Kill 'em all!"
Staff sergeant roared. Most refugee volunteers screamed fleeing. Few held ground.
Rat-tat-tat-tat—
Suppressors thumped dull. No conserving ammo. Full auto, hosing wild. Bodies erupted—heads burst, eyes popped, chests sprayed. Uneven fire pure waste.
Pack hit boy too. Bulletproof pain-blind—Winter fired knee-high, left to right, controlled bursts. Emptied mag in five seconds. Thigh hit fine, knee/shin shatter better.
"Krek!"
Fallen flailed. Crawled. Swapped mag, advanced, stamped napes crunching under boot. Gripped rifle two-handed. Diagonal smash shattered next jaw. Tech assist. Head whipped over. Trailing tripped on it. Kicked down. More shots.
"Grenades! Toss everything!"
Urgent cry from trucks. Several already airborne. Boy dove back flat.
Boom! Whoomf! Bang!
Noise huge, blasts small. Flashes, smoke wisps—no Hollywood fireballs.
Boy knew from dying to one: visible flash tiny vs lethal radius. Shrapnel shredder. Packed with coils/balls in shell—50% kill in 30m circle. Outside, still 50% or less.
Variants tumbled like storm-tossed twigs. Road instant bloodsea. Timely prone folks unscathed. Ground burst reflected shockwave, low-angle safe zone. Even in kill radius periphery, prone slashed injury odds. Winter well outside.
Staggered grenades popped chain. Couldn't rise easy—ragged infected crawled close. Prone, rifle on belly, fired. Shaky aim/posture—first missed head. Shoulder burst bloody. Second cracked eye in. Head lolled off. Clean kill.
New one climbed over dead. Hidden close. Trigger clicked dry. Not empty—dud or stovepipe. Rolled side, drew machete. Momentum drove chop into crown. Blood splat. Variant convulsed.
Dozens blasts done. Boy rose steady. Variants still stirred. Pre-shrapnel, hurt/crazed but humanish—now pure monsters. Guts spilling, limping broken legs, skinned muscle bare. Bloodsoaked, bleed-out pending. XP bait to boy. Blinded, deafened, crippled heaps.
Own headspace worried him. Killing human-like nonhumans—no guilt, that blunt violence thrill, heavy heart tug. Gunfire fine. But close, smelling breath, stabbing/crushing preferred.
Skull-crack snap through blade tips—chest stone smoothed cool. Something released. Poignant satisfaction. Killing near-humans let total immersion, self forgotten. Mind numbed slight.
Winter wrist-snapped jungle knife spin, closed on staggerers. US gunfire distant echo. Irrelevant now. Horizontal slash. Throat-slashed fell. Calm stomp silenced gut-dragger. Breath-forgotten focus. Another neared. Thwack. Diagonal ripped temple to cheek. Jaw dislocated shock. Jammed throat. Yanked pre-slump. Kicked. Repetitive task.
Soon boy stood alone amid hundreds variant corpses. No other refugee held. Just him. Trance-state frenzy awed soldiers. Favorability dipped some, rose others. Varied reactions logged by alignment.
Sheathed knife, checked rifle. Tapped, cycled bolt—stovepipe dud pinged asphalt clean. Mangled brass.
"What're you spacing for! Dig out buried! Start work! Ramirez, take your guys perimeter!"
Pierce bellowed. Fresh vehicles arrived. Reinforcements rushing on contact report. Fast response—but grenade fight ended faster, moot.