00006 - The Little Prince in the Ossuary
#Supply Procurement (4), San Miguel
The San Miguel Mill seemed to be an old wooden structure, yet it spanned an impressively wide area, large enough to fit about thirty average homes with room to spare.
To the left, a railway track passed by, which, despite its central location in the village, kept the north-south view unobstructed.
When there was a call for volunteers to guard the crossing, refugees with moderately packed duffle bags eagerly volunteered.
None of them wanted to join in the dangerous building search.
A sturdy young man, possibly a college student, and a somewhat overweight middle-aged man were selected.
Corporal Elliot led the rest to the right side of the mill. There were four doors: the office entrance and three freight gates for loading vehicles.
An abandoned semi-trailer truck, presumably used for transporting cargo, was visible. Han Gyeo-ul pulled at the truck's driver's door.
It was locked.
All entrances to the mill were wide open, with no internal lighting, each door a gaping dark hole.
The equipment provided to the refugees did not include lanterns, a critical oversight in the planning stage.
Even if they had lanterns, nobody would volunteer to enter first, except the boy, Han Gyeo-ul.
Just as with the fire station earlier, there might be vehicle keys in the office. As Gyeo-ul was about to enter without hesitation, private Guilherme held him back.
"Planning to go first again? Shall we go in together?"
"No, the leader is important. Just lend me the lantern."
"Hoooah."
The soldier clicked his tongue in admiration at the boy's bravery and handed him his flashlight, a tactical lantern bent at a right angle, which could be attached to the outside of a ballistic vest.
The refugee volunteers were accepted to prevent any potential casualties among the American soldiers, but in the long term, there should be no harm among the refugees either.
Given their excessive passivity, the soldiers decided to see how far the boy could go.
Gyeo-ul approached the office entrance with his gun still slung across his back, firmly gripping only a machete.
Within steps, it led to a flight of stairs wide enough for a single adult to pass, with three or four steps hidden in darkness above.
The scene was perfect for cultivating anxiety.
Like at the fire station, the boy tapped the walls with the flat of his machete blade, a signal to any sound-reactive infected mutants to come crawling out.
After several taps, as expected, there was the sound of footsteps on the stairs above.
Since the sounds didn't overlap, there was probably just one.
Gyeo-ul deliberately ascended the stairs without turning on the lantern, betting only on smell and presence.
The creaking and squeaking of ascending and descending steps clashed. The darkness made everything invisible.
Eerie, monotonous noises pervaded. Although not fearful, his heart raced—an artificially created sensation deemed necessary by the system.
Viewer message alerts surged.
The infected mutant's breathing was rough, its stench emanating from rotten flesh.
According to information, in the process of pathogen overtaking the host, the immune system malfunctions, causing widespread inflammation leading to rotting or swelling.
The airways narrow, sharpening the breath sounds. As the foul smell and noise approached, at a certain moment, Gyeo-ul daringly reached out his machete-less hand.
He caught something.
"Gyaaak-!"
A gruesome scream, grinding the vocal cords. The boy ducked down and lifted the lower body of the creature.
Saliva-mixed harsh breath splattered over his nape.
Wham!
Those viewers involved in "Sense Synchronization" must have been overwhelmed.
That was his aim.
He switched on the lantern, frowning at the squirming mutant. Though mutated, it was still originally human with adaptive light sensitivity similar to humans.
As it screeched, he stabbed a knife sharply into its open mouth. Its reflexive bite clamped the blade, but he didn't care.
Leaning on the handle with his weight.
Crunch, crackle—
The knife twisted and turned as the sound of the brainstem crushing could be heard.
Under the light, the mutant's limbs convulsed, then stiffened, and finally, limp, twitching.
Even as all this unfolded, its eyeballs rolled, glaring at the boy. However, it had already lost its motor skills, posing no threat.
Its heart had stopped, so it would die soon.
Dragging the limp mutant by the legs, he pulled it down the stairs.
Outside, people waiting with anxious expressions aimed their guns, but upon seeing the boy signaling not to shoot with his extended hand, they sighed in relief.
Tossing the mutant corpse next to the entrance, the boy climbed the stairs once more.
There were no obstacles this time. The office light switches didn't work. He searched the office with the lantern.
As expected in America, he found an old pistol in a drawer. There were also two small ammunition boxes labeled 45 ACP FMJ, each containing 50 rounds, and an extra magazine.
Additionally, he found the targeted vehicle keys and grain silo keys. A cigar box (humidor) was also there, and he selected it, thinking Guilherme or Elliot might appreciate it.
Descending the stairs, Guilherme approached.
"Did you get bitten anywhere?"
The voice through the gas mask was a bit muffled. The boy shook his head and spread his arms, indicating Guilherme could check himself.
After inspecting here and there, Guilherme raised a thumbs-up facing backward. Corporal Elliot nodded in confirmation from a distance.
"Guilherme, do you like cigars?"
"Of course. Oh, my goodness. Isn't this a Cohiba Robusto?"
"Split them with Sir Elliot."
The boy handed over the entire box to the delighted soldier.
Cuban hand-rolled cigars cost over $10 each. Receiving such a bundle was indeed a cause for joy. The private seemed eager to smoke immediately.
"I found the keys, may I check the vehicle?"
Although trivial, permission was necessary. The soldiers exchanged glances. The corporal nodded.
The boy went to the vehicle to verify the keys. The door opened. He took the driver's seat.
The key inserted and turned smoothly, igniting the engine. The chassis vibrated with a soft hum. The guards visibly tensed at the sound.
The fuel gauge showed it was sufficient. He roughly knew how to drive, so he could move the vehicle without investing experience points into driving skills.
Although with system assistance, high-difficulty maneuvers were possible, it wasn't urgent.
He positioned the truck at the mill's loading dock and entered the building. Despite the absence of lighting, it wasn't completely dark.
Sunlight seeped through cracks in the metal slate roof. Nevertheless, darkness was still scattered around, casting shadows.
It wouldn't be a surprise to see anything lurking within. The followers entering behind him were stiff like statues, hardly moving.
The pattern was the same. He tapped on the grain silo to see if there was any response. After waiting briefly, it was quiet.
Confirming safety by shining his light around, he found nothing. It's rare, yet hard to let the guard down, as there might be mutants with damaged hearing or torn eardrums.
Finally, people began to move.
"Wow, this is quite something."
Elliot whistled at the sight. Mounds of milled wheat and corn towered over. Just loading this much would solve their food supply issues for the time being.
A cursory hygiene check would suffice, but it didn't really matter. The gas masks worn were largely for show.
Had there been an actual pathogen concern, they should be in full protective suits.
Nonetheless, ignoring minor risks reflected the dire situation in the American West.
Han Gyeo-ul's interest lay elsewhere. The mill also dealt in seed trading, with various crop seeds bagged and stacked in one section.
Though seemingly viable to farm with these seeds, a significant pitfall existed.
Bags branded by certain seed companies contained seeds that wouldn't germinate if replanted after harvesting.
These are known as Terminator Seeds.
Seed companies profit from selling superior seed varieties, and without farmers purchasing seeds each year, their operations become unsustainable.
Hence, the genetic manipulation ensures that harvested crops won't sprout when replanted.
This had led to one of Gyeo-ul's bad endings. There's even a related achievement.
「「「Achievement: No Way, my Crops are Impotent!」」」
This stroke of calamity shook the once-stable commune he built. The second-year harvest was virtually nil.
The commune members blamed their leader, Gyeo-ul, and the food shortage-induced panic led to the communal structure's collapse.
In the ensuing chaos, the boy was murdered.
Come to think of it, he should inform the viewers about this. Although hesitantly, Gyeo-ul accessed the viewer message log.
Every time he did this, it felt like the realism of the world would drop drastically, disrupting the immersion with reminders of its fictional nature.
With the world setting temporarily paused, he activated the "Teletype" function.
All thoughts focused by Gyeo-ul instantly transformed into sentences.
「Han Gyeo-ul: For those new to After the Apocalypse, avoid indiscriminately planting seeds found in places like these. Most seeds are genetically modified. They yield high crop amounts but won't sprout if replanted the following year. This dramatically hampers community stability, making game progression difficult. Choose unbranded seed bags or secure adequate seeds for repetitive use beforehand. If aiming to reach the 'No Way, my Crops are Impotent!' achievement, experiencing a bad ending is fine, but the achievement's effect slightly increases crop resistance to pests and drought, which isn't particularly useful.」
The responses came immediately.
「ㄹㅇㅇㅈ: The realistic depiction in useless parts 😂」
「DewCroc: Impotent 😂 Saying my crops are impotent 😂 Love that cheeky taste 😂」
「JessicaFullTimer: I know about this. It's how multinational seed companies exploit third-world countries. Especially that damn Mon*to company. They even took chili and spinach seeds from us. Seed patent lasts several decades. The Korean spinach everyone eats is actually all American OEM. Ah, dear Judge, this message was typed by my cat.」
「BanditHom: Are the broadcasters reading this? Hey, that was epic earlier 😂 The tactile feeling when handling that zombie creature haha, here's some stars for you, pal.」
【BanditHom has gifted 10 stars.】
「IntenseDog: Jessica's a know-it-all, feeling good?」
「JessicaFullTimer: Why's there beef, you lunatic.」
「SnowFieldFox: Everyone, please, don't fight.」
【SnowFieldFox has gifted 10 stars.】
「RedBean: Fox lady, why stop them? It's entertaining. Keep going. Do more.」
Countless messages flew by, too many to read each individually. Gyeo-ul counted the virtual currency "stars" he accumulated.
Converted to Korean won, it amounted to a few tens of thousands. For some inexplicable reason, his mood felt heavier.
He closed the log and resumed the paused time. Time began to flow again.
Having confirmed the abundant food supplies lightening spirits, Elliot was communicating via radio with the main force.
He reported clearing the roads, thus requesting them to bring the trucks.
Private Guilherme instructed the refugees to load the food into the semi-trailer docked there.
As Gyeo-ul was about to join, Guilherme winked at him and stopped him.
"You deserve a break, brave friend. You've worked alone all this time."
"... Alright."
Gyeo-ul nodded. Yet, the weight of uneasy feelings still lingered.
Outside, the sound of approaching vehicles could be heard—four military transport trucks with blunt front ends sticking out unlike civilian ones.
The senior occupant was a black sergeant from the camp the day before—his name was Pierce.
He expressed immense joy at the sight of piles of flour and grains that exceeded the truck's capacity.
"We can work those cooks harder now."
However, the good atmosphere didn't last long. A strange noise approached from the distant north, seemingly drawing closer.
An unsettling atmosphere prevailed.
"What's that noise? Go check it out."
Following the sergeant's order, corporal Elliot radioed the volunteers guarding the crossing, inquiring if anything could be seen from the north.
The northern exit opened for train cargo was obstructed by grain silos, rusted water towers, and cranes, impairing visibility.
Yet, the impending disaster was audibly clear before it was visible. The clanging sound was unmistakably that of a train crushing through the tracks.
The soldiers, informed of the halted train operations long ago, were bewildered.
More troubling were the numerous abandoned vehicles left in the middle of the tracks entering the village.
The train, without slowing down, was hurtling towards them. Upon learning this through the radio, the corporal's face turned pale.
"Damn it."
He spun around, yelling frantically.
"Everyone out! It's not safe here!"
The interior of the mill instantly filled with screams.
Everyone could sense the train's approach. Bang- Crash- Surely the sound of the train colliding with abandoned vehicles.
If a vehicle got trapped under the wheels, the train would derail.
Before everyone could evacuate, the misaligned locomotive crashed through the northern wall.
The blazing steel mass crushed pillars and propelled the silo as it rolled in. The roof caved in.
Though the locomotive halted, buried in the wooden pile, the structural collapse seemed imminent.
Gyeo-ul barely managed to escape outside. However, many were crushed under the debris.
"Clear the debris! We need to rescue those trapped!"
Sergeant Pierce, covered in dust and fragments, raised his voice sternly. The wooden single-story building hinted that those trapped beneath might still be alive.
"Sergeant! Look over there!"
A soldier cried out urgently. In the direction indicated, zigzagging overturned passenger cars lay.
Human-like figures crawled out from doors and windows. People ejected during the car's overturn staggered to their feet.
Hearing the soldier's shout, those figures simultaneously turned their gaze this way.
"Grrrrraaahhh!"
"Oh shit! Mutants!"
Not just a few.
The train's compartments were packed with them, creeping out like maggots from a corpse.
Those without broken limbs were already charging this way. The fastest ones were nearly at the back of the trucks.
"Kill them all!"
The sergeant roared. However, most refugee volunteers screamed and fled. Only a handful bore the fear and held their ground.
Ratatatatat-
Silencer-equipped guns thudded softly. Concepts of conserving ammunition were irrelevant.
Everyone set their fire to auto and fired continuously. The creature trying to climb the vehicle burst at multiple points.
Head exploded, eyes shattered, blood splattered from the chest. Firepower without distribution is an obvious waste.
Numerous hungry mutants charged at the boy as well. Despite bullets embedded in their bodies, feeling no pain, Gyeo-ul aimed at their kneecaps and fired.
The magazine emptied in five seconds. It was fine to hit only the thighs, better to break knees or shin bones.
"Rargh!"
The fallen ones squirmed. Crawling, while reloading, he advanced, crushing the nape with a boot.
Clutching the gun firmly with both hands, struck the approaching mutant's jaw diagonally.
With the skill buff, its jaw shattered completely. The reeling head, body following suit, entangled the legs of another close by.
Kicked it down, then shot it.
"Grenades! Throw everything you have!"
A frantic voice came from the vehicle direction. Looking over, several grenades were already tossed.
The boy hastily withdrew, diving to the ground.
Boom! Kerboom! Ka-boom!
The actual explosion was minor and unimpressive compared to the tremendous noise.
Just a few flashing lights and a bit of smoke. No towering inferno as depicted in movies.
However, he once died from a grenade; those external flashes compared to the lethal range of a grenade were truly nothing.
It's a weapon designed to tear through humans with shrapnel.
Stuffed inside its round shell are coils or iron balls, detonating; humans within a 30-meter diameter circle have over a 50% chance of dying.
Even outside, under 50% chance linger.
Mutants tumbled like twigs swept by a storm. The road transformed into a sea of blood in an instant.
Those who ducked down in time were unharmed. When grenades detonate on the ground, shock waves reflect off the terrain.
Thus creating a low-angle non-lethal area—a prone person outside the lethal range has a reduced likelihood of being harmed.
Gyeo-ul lay outside the impact zone.
Grenades thrown in succession continued exploding. Unable to recklessly rise, still lying on his back, a shredded mutant crawled toward him.
Resting the gun atop his stomach, he pulled the trigger. Due to the unstable posture and inadequate aiming, the initial shot didn't hit its head.
The shoulder jolted and stained with blood. The second shot shattered the eye, penetrating inside. The head fell. It was a plain demise.
Another emerged atop the dead mutant. Hidden by the previous incoming one, the distance was close.
Pulling the trigger, but the gun didn't fire. It wasn't the empty magazine, perhaps a misfire or jammed round.
Rolling sideways, the boy pulled out a bayonet. Rolling along, with momentum, he struck the gaping creature's crown, digging in the knife.
Dead blood splattered as the mutated body convulsed.
The explosions numbered in dozens concluded. Righting himself, Gyeo-ul rose. The mutants were still moving.
Though before being hit by shrapnel, they appeared human-like despite injuries or madness, now they clearly resembled monsters.
Entrails dripping, one with a broken leg staggering, another's exposed muscles through peeled skin—all bloodied, seemingly near-death by hemorrhagic bleeding alone.
For Gyeo-ul, they presented an opportunity to gain experience points. Despite standing, many had ruptured eyes or torn eardrums, unable to hear, numerous incapable of normal movement.
Concerning his mental state, he felt worried. Killing these humanoid but non-human beings didn't elicit guilt, but that weighty feeling in his heart felt good.
Shooting with a gun, too, was satisfying.
Yet, being within breathing distance, smelling them, stabbing with a knife, smashing with a blunt instrument seemed more preferable.
As he thrust the knife into the skull, crack!
The sound of the skull breaking vibrated through his fingertips—at that moment, the jagged stone inside his chest felt liberating, soothing.
There's something freeing and heartrendingly satisfying in those moments of killing human-like but non-human creatures that absorbed Gyeo-ul enough to forget himself.
His mind grew slightly hazy.
Rotating the machete with a wrist snap, he approached staggering ones.
The sounds of soldiers firing were distant echoes, unrelated to his task ahead.
Swiping the blade horizontally, vanquishing infected ones, stabbing crawling ones into silent obedience—the focus intensified to a breathless state.
Another approached. Swish. A diagonal slash split the temple to the cheek. The impact seemingly dislocated its jaw.
Stick a knife into the revealed throat, pulling out before it slackened. Kicking it. The repetitive cycle of simple work.
Before he knew it, Gyeo-ul stood alone among the dismembered hundreds of infected mutants.
None of the refugee volunteers remained until the end. Only he stood there—utterly engrossed.
So fiercely had he fought that the military personnel looked daunted. Among the soldiers, some's affection decreased slightly, while others grew.
The varied responses, aligned with their dispositions, were logged in the system message.
Gyeo-ul secured the knife, checking the firearm. Tapping it and retracting the breech bolt caused an errant round to pop out onto the asphalt.
A crisp metallic sound echoed—a mangled misfire round jammed by the latch.
"What's everyone standing around for! We need to rescue those trapped! Start working! Ramirez, gather your men and resume the watch!"
Sergeant Pierce's voice pierced through. New vehicles arrived swiftly.
Reinforcements dashed to assist promptly upon learning of the skirmish.
While the response time was swift, the grenade-assisted engagement had concluded even faster, rendering them redundant.