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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 4
Chapter Title: Supply Procurement (3), San Miguel
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Along the U.S. highways, there were usually motels and restaurants near gas stations. San Miguel was no exception: two restaurants sat across the road, and a motel occupied the diagonal corner at the intersection. While the soldiers maintained their perimeter watch, refugees in gas masks gripped their machetes, jungle knives, axes, and the like, starting their searches from the nearest restaurant.
Watching this, the boy born in winter—who had earned the name Winter—vaguely wondered if there weren't many Hispanic locals in the town. After all, both restaurants across from the gas station were Spanish eateries. One bore a sign reading "Tenth Street Basque Cafe," while the other, more bar than restaurant, advertised tortas and burritos.
The refugees swarmed in too heavily. The boy held back, worried that if even one infected variant appeared, they'd collide and fail in their roles. The others, however, were different. Eager to score points by showing maximum effort from the relatively safe spot near the vehicle convoy, they competed fiercely. Shouts echoed even outside the buildings despite their gas masks—meaning they were screaming at the top of their lungs.
Fortunately, the buildings seemed empty of variants. Everyone emerged intact. But not exactly in normal shape. Traces of them scrambling to stuff their duffel bags with food were everywhere. One person came out hugging a torn bag, sobbing. No telling where their gas mask went—probably knocked off in the scuffle. They got an earful from the supervising sergeant and had to go back in.
A burly refugee volunteer swaggered up to the truck, his duffel bag stuffed full. Embarrassingly, he was Korean. Even in a game, shame was shame. That was because characters in this historical world setting had personalities generated from big data of the era. The man demanded the boy interpret for him. Pathetic, but the boy relayed his words.
"I've done my share. I'm not going out again."
Upon hearing the translation, soldiers, NCOs, and officers alike let their expressions crumble. Sergeant Elliot grumbled. He'd suspected as much, but to think it started like this. The man, clutching his duffel on the truck bed, asked what the Americans said. The boy ignored him.
Including the boy, ten refugees moved out under orders from Private First Class Guilherme and Sergeant Elliot. They were heading to the mill. Three blocks east from the gas station, then four blocks north. Before "Morgellons," it would've been a casual stroll. For today's survivors, though, it felt impossibly far.
The experienced boy was different. When no one wanted to take point, he volunteered. He slung the temporarily issued rifle across his back and gripped only a jungle knife in hand. He trusted his Rank 9 "Close Combat" and Rank 10 "Melee Weapon Proficiency" skill bonuses.
Every block, cars lay tangled in chaos. He gestured the volunteers over, pushing vehicles to the shoulder as they advanced. Along the way, he kept constant watch on the residential areas to left and right. Single-story homes beyond low fences and wooden barriers evoked a lonely emptiness, devoid of any signs of life.
"Hold. Stop."
Sergeant Elliot raised a fist. The refugees dropped into near-prone stances, eyes darting like frightened herbivores. Fortunately, it wasn't a threat detection. In the direction the sergeant eyed stood a flagpole. The U.S. flag was familiar, but the one with a red star and grizzly bear was not.
"What's that flag?"
"California state flag. Means it's a fire station. Didn't notice during map drills."
Private First Class Guilherme answered. Sure enough, below the bear read "California Republic."
At Sergeant Elliot's decision, they opted to search the fire station. Food was unlikely, but painkillers, antibiotics, bandages, and such medical supplies were vital logistics. Fire trucks mattered too—if they ever left camp, they'd be perfect for hauling water.
"Even a small 5-ton pumper holds 3,000 liters easy."
Elliot said with a grin.
Again, the boy led the entry. He'd been told they could rotate turns, but he didn't care. A notification popped up: slight upward adjustment to both U.S. soldiers' affinity favorability. No big deal. No need to get worked up over trivial changes.
The town being small, the fire station was single-story. The office adjoined the garage directly, but unfortunately, special glass hid the interior. The boy rapped the door with his knife's flat side. Loud enough to carry inside, not far beyond. To the heart-squeezed refugees, though, it seemed otherwise. One grabbed his collar, yelling if he was crazy.
"Hey, that's enough."
Guilherme aimed his rifle, wagging the barrel side to side. Back off. If it were truly dangerous, the Americans would've stopped the boy. The warned refugee retreated hesitantly, then collapsed in a fit at a sudden thud-thud from inside. Pressing an ear to the door revealed a guttural "uuuugh." Not human. An infected variant.
The boy shook his head at the two soldiers prepping to fire from several meters back. He gripped the doorknob, jungle knife in the other hand.
"I'll handle it."
"Got balls or lost your mind..."
As Private First Class Guilherme shook his head, Sergeant Elliot asked if he was sure. A nod, and the sergeant permitted it. Less faith in the boy than needing to motivate the refugees. Still, he didn't want the boy to fail—that'd backfire. His trigger finger tensed, ready to squeeze.
"Alright. If you're confident, go for it."
Winter the boy imagined the infected beyond the door. If a firefighter waiting on standby, it'd be in turnout gear and helmet—few weak spots for a blade. Thought brief, action swift. He twisted the knob and yanked. The variant battering the door tumbled out, unable to check its momentum. The boy stomped its back, kicked off the helmet, and smashed the heavy-bladed knife down. Crunch. The blade sank through shattered skull. Blood-mixed brains oozed stickily from the split. The corpse convulsed.
A human-like thing dying. A numb tingle ran up the hilt like electricity. This sensation was why he'd picked this dark-world virtual reality title. The boy savored it until death, then snapped his wrist. The blade popped free.
"Hey, you good?"
"I'm fine."
He gave the concerned Guilherme a calm reply. The private whistled roughly in admiration.
"Damn, we got a real badass here."
The boy entered first through the open door. Small actions yielded small gains. Another slight rise in the soldiers' affinity favorability. Still trivial, but such accumulations would pay off later.
In a small town like this, the fire station doubled as a public office. The office window even read "Community services district" across the front. Firefighters, with few calls, handled admin duties too.
The office stretched long front to back. He found a key bundle amid file stacks in the rear and pocketed two pistols. While the followers gawked, he raided the wall cabinet for meds. It filled a third of his duffel.
"Um..."
A middle-aged man spoke up.
"We should divide it fairly. What gives you the right to hog it all..."
The boy turned silently. The man flinched back. Blood still dripped from the boy's firm jungle knife grip. He'd sensed the threat. Stared down, the man averted his eyes. The boy didn't dawdle. Three toggle switches lined another wall—surely garage shutter controls. Elliot had eyed the fire truck. He stood at the door. Eye contact, a nod. The boy slammed them down without hesitation.
Sure enough, a whirr of motor. Outside, the unentered folks and two soldiers swept rifles everywhere, fearing noise-drawn variant hordes.
Thwack!
"Wh-what?!"
A startled volunteer shrieked. Next to the station was a lot; a variant crawled from there. The boy charged and cleaved it. Someone reflex-fired, nearly hitting him.
Viewer message logs exploded. A quick check: mostly "Almost died stupidly lololol." Several said kill the bitch.
"S-sorry! I didn't mean to!"
A woman young enough for a kid bowed repeatedly. Age hard to guess from looks. Refugee rags aged everyone a decade easy, man or woman. The boy gestured.
"It's fine. Just keep your voice down."
His nonchalant attitude triggered multiple favorability change alerts. Sergeant Elliot cocked his head, incredulous.
"No joke, real badass? Fearless or reckless..."
"Does it matter?"
The boy countered up close. The sergeant chuckled.
"Way better than those whiny redneck rookies in Iraq. Looking forward to working with you."
"Thanks."
The open garage held an ambulance and a fire truck—one bay empty. Sergeant Elliot picked a drivable volunteer to take it to the gas station and return. The boy's secured supplies went in too. Standing out from the bag-fill-and-flee refugees, he easily won the soldiers' favor.
The two drivers, though, were reluctant.
"We have to come back?"
The sergeant shoved the pouting pair roughly.
"Obviously."
The boy translated. Picked drivers glared at him innocently before climbing in. No guts to piss off the Americans.
Sergeant Elliot radioed main base: two vehicles sent with supplies inside; retrieve goods, return personnel. Just seven blocks total—quick trip. Reply came soon: no need for drivers to return? Elliot snorted, insisting they send them back.
While waiting, they searched more. Near town center, cafes and restaurants dotted about. An unnamed diner, Jackson's old and new of similar size. The Ranch boldly advertised Mexican food—immigrant-heavy town as first thought.
Coffee house worth searching? Debatable.
"Look, lunch special on the sign? They served food for sure."
Elliot's call. Indeed, canned ham, flour sacks, etc. Enough to fill seven duffels with surplus. Vacuum-packed coffee beans for the camp CO too. Oxidized, not prime, but luxury now. Handled a few more variants mid-search, no incidents.
Post-search, cleared road cars too. Partly 'cause the two drivers trudged back slow.
"Won't get ration coupons if you don't hurry."
Elliot's warning sped them up. Private First Class Guilherme muttered a curse.
Rejoined, they advanced two more blocks. Reached the mill-visible intersection. The boy steeled himself. Mill arrival meant two choices: fill duffels and return, or clear roads and call vehicles. Latter gave big XP but survived timed variant waves. Even former tough—mill packed with variants, no easy first encounter. Boy's first "Day after Apocalypse" run ended here.
"Hey, little badass."
Sergeant Elliot called amiably enough.
"Think we can call the truck?"
"How about securing the mill interior first, then decide?"
Obvious suggestion. The sergeant nodded.